The Call To War
by Finn Solomon
Summary: Sequel to A Hero's End. Aedan Cousland is dead and war has come again to Ferelden, as the Qunari march upon the land. Morrigan has returned to seek her son Rolann, the mage with the power of an old god, while Leliana struggles to keep her family alive.
1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**The Call of War**

**Foreword**

Greetings, dear reader. This particular story is the sequel to my first Dragon Age fan fic, titled A Hero's End. I would be very grateful for any reviews you may care to leave, and I will answer to each one personally. Thank you for reading, I hope you're as excited about the sequel as I am. There will be civil war, invasion, political intrigue and last stands on an epic scale. I can't wait.

_It is Dragon Age 9:57, twenty seven years after the defeat of the Blight and two years after Teyrn Aedan Cousland, King Alistair and Oghren have been lost to the Calling, the final act that all Grey Wardens must go through._

_Aedan's wife Leliana and his three children are trying to adjust to a life without the Hero of Ferelden. Aedan's oldest son Rolann sits in Highever as the new Teyrn, his daughter Aeryn is married to the Crown Prince, and his younger son Darien is roaming the land with Ayden, Oghren's son and a mighty warrior in his own right. Little do they know that events are about to unfold which will rock the foundations of their lives and irrevocably alter the fate of the nation. Ferelden is ruled with an iron fist by Queen Anora, and even in the sleepy villages there are rumours that the Qunari armies are girding themselves for war in distant Par Vollen. Slipping by unnoticed however is the witch known as Morrigan, intent on recovering the son that was stolen from her. Rolann Cousland, the mage whose soul is imbued with the power of an elder god._

**Chapter 1 – Something Wicked This Way Comes **

**Dragon Age 9:57**

**Denerim**

Rain hammered down on the streets of the city of Denerim, drenching the stones, turning dirt to mud, filling the air with its relentless roar. It was the kind of torrential downpour that made even the most desperate cutpurse and pickpocket give up and seek shelter. The feral cats and enormous black rats and Denerim's working ladies who usually prowled the streets after dark were nowhere to be seen. The capital slumbered, like some great hibernating beast, and waited for the dawn and clear skies. Rain was bad for business of all kinds, be it legal or cutthroat.

Rain was something the city guard thanked the Maker for every night. The city's indomitable mob would resist an attack of darkspawn to their last breath, but a bit of water sent them all scurrying for cover. Although the guards scheduled for patrol on wet nights would inadvertently get soaked to the bone, and complain loudly about it afterwards, secretly they were pleased. Rain washed away the filth, kept the riff-raff indoors and there was less chance of getting your throat cut.

Two guards were making their rounds, a sergeant and a corporal. They stomped happily through the puddles, safe in the knowledge that while they were getting drenched outside, all the thieves and murderers were keeping warm and dry on the inside. The guards had been part of Denerim's infamous browncoats for as long as anyone could remember. Somehow or other it was always their turn to go on patrol whenever the clouds began to gather.

"Sarge?"

"Yes corporal."

"What I want to know is, sarge..."

"Speak your mind, corporal."

"Is why Queen Nora is queen, and not the prince."

"Are you asking, corporal, why the prince cannot be the queen? I should think the answer was obvious to a man wise to the world."

"It's funny you should say that sarge, because my cousin Errol told me once about this Antivan lord who became a lady, if you follow my meaning."

Under his helmet, the sergeant's eyes rolled upwards to the heavens.

"Your cousin Errol."

"Yes sarge."

"Corporal, has your cousin Errol ever been to Antiva?"

"No sarge. He's never even left Denerim, matter of fact."

"What, never?"

"No."

"Not even when the bloody darkspawn overran the city?"

"Don't think so sarge. We found Errol in his hovel after it was all over, drunker than a monkey's uncle. He didn't even believe that a Blight had hit."

"Blow that, what were we taking about again?"

"I dunno sarge."

They walked on in comfortable silence. Forty years on patrol had taught them the thread of a lost conversation would eventually pop up again sooner or later.

"Oh, right. What I wanna know sarge, is why Prince Duncan didn't become king when his father died."

"Did he really die? Thought I heard he was just going to Orzammar."

"It's been two years, sarge. He ain't coming back."

"Pity, that. I quite liked the old bugger. He really looked out for the little man."

"What, you mean like the dwarves?"

"No, I don't mean – well yes, ol' King Alistair was always friendly to them dwarves, but I meant the common people. People like us."

"Can't rightly call you little sarge, you must weigh more than twenty stone - "

"The point is, corporal, the old king was a sight better than Nasty Nora. I remember when she was married to some other bugger, Callahan his name was. Or Cullen. Can't quite recall. She led him by the nose, she did. We had to pay taxes and everything."

"We pay taxes now, sarge."

"Aye, because that old dried up prune Nora's got her arse on the throne once more. Ol' Alistair wouldn't have stood for such nonsense."

"Didn't we pay taxes when Alistair was king?"

"No, because we always locked the door and hid under the table when the taxman came a-calling. Now the palace just takes it straight out of our monthly wages without asking, as cool as you like! Bugger that Nora. I hope she snuffs it soon and we get Dunc on the throne."

"Been meaning to ask you about that sarge, why isn't Dunc on the throne?"

"You see corporal, Alistair went up in front of all the nobs and bigwigs and told them Nora would be queen until her death. Was forced to it at swordpoint, I shouldn't wonder."

"And now we have to pay taxes and keep to the curfew and kill the rats and everything."

"S'right. Curfew. That's another bloody shame. Chokin' the lifeblood of commerce and all that. Time was I could get a sausage-inna-bun at any hour of the bloody night. Now everything's locked up and I have to eat them cold."

"Not to mention the ladies from the Pearl plying their trade after hours."

The guards fell silent for a little while as they considered the working ladies who lodged at the Pearl. For some reason, not a lot of clothing was involved in this recollection.

"Damn shame."

"Too right."

Through the curtain of rain, the guards noticed a dark figure coming down the street towards them. They exchanged nervous glances. Everyone else was supposed to be indoors after curfew. After a moment's hesitation, the sergeant hailed the shrouded traveller.

"Oi, you!"

Whoever it was, he could run fast. As soon as the sergeant opened his mouth he was legging it down an alley, splashing water everywhere.

"Should we go after him, sarge?"

"Negatory corporal, I knows that alley. It leads to a dead end. We'll have 'im trapped, whoever it is. We're two against one. Easy as winking."

"In that case sarge, feel free to lead the way."

"Shut up. And you go first."

The guards inched their way towards the alleymouth, steeling themselves for a sight of all manner of horrible abominations. When you were in the Denerim city guard for as long as they had, there was very little that could surprise you. Terrify, yes. Surprise, not so much.

"Is it huge green things with teeth what broke out from them Fade dimensions again? Maker's arse, once was quite enough."

"I don't believe it sarge, there's no one here!"

The sergeant poked his head around the corner. True enough, the mysterious figure had disappeared. Facing them was a stretch of blank wall and nothing else.

Well, not entirely nothing. There was the usual pile of rags and other rubbish strewn all over the ground. And pressing itself against a wall, was one very wet and bedraggled cat.

"Well I'll be buggered. You're right. He's disappeared."

"What about the cat?"

"What about it?"

"Poor little mite, out in the cold and wet on a night like this. We ought to take it back to the guardhouse, we should," protested the corporal. He had a weakness for creatures smaller and weaker than himself, the reason being that there weren't many. The sergeant once had to deal with a baby drake that the corp had rescued. It had eaten everything in the guardhouse that wasn't nailed down before exploding.

"Very well, if you must," he sighed. The corporal approached the cat, hands on his knees.

"Come here little kitty, I ain't gonna hurt you – OW! Son of a bitch, that mog scratched me!"

The cat arched its back and hissed, its bright amber eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. The corporal retreated to the alleymouth, where he presented his injured hand for inspection.

"Look at that! Clawed right down to the bone I shouldn't wonder."

"Serves you bloody well right, next time you'll learn not to touch those bloody fleabags. Let's get back to the guardhouse sharpish, I want a cup of something hot and you want that hand looking at."

"Right, sarge."

The guards wandered off. After a while the sound of their ceaseless conversation died off, replaced once again by the endless pattering of the rain. Nothing stirred in the alley for several minutes. Then suddenly, where it had previously contained a soaked black cat, it was now occupied by a naked woman.

She cursed furiously as she scuttled around the alley, gathering up the bits and pieces of cloth that had been her garments before she was forced to discard them in a hurry. That was the trouble with shapeshifting, one's clothes rarely survived the process. Eventually she was hooded and cloaked once more. She picked up her staff, the guards having overlooked it as just another piece of trash. They did not know how lucky they were however, because if she had her staff in hand when facing them they would have been little more than sad piles of ash.

"Back again in this vermin-infested city," she muttered. "'Twas a sight better when the darkspawn were ruling the roost."

She was the Witch of the Wilds, the Unnamed, the Other, the Forgotten one of Teyrn Aedan Cousland's fabled band of nine. Morrigan had returned to the capital of Ferelden.

She supposed she was an old woman now, although she hated everything about that term for it brought up far too unpleasant associations with her mother, Flemeth Demon-touched. It had been twenty seven years since the Blight, since she was barely past her girlhood. Sent away from her forest home in the company of two wardens, a lordling and a templar fool to save all the land. No doubt that idiot bard would have found the story worthy of a song. She was Morrigan, and she could no more sing than a spider could fly.

Beside the commonplace ailments of time and old age, she had sustained massive injuries in a fight with her former lover, the man the sheep of Ferelden dubbed the Dragonslayer. Even now, all those years later, the memory of that fight still burned like wildfire. Not because the only man she had ever loved had come calling with the red-haired whore he took to wife, disturbing her peaceful solitude. No, because the men worshipped as a hero by so many had attacked her with the sole purpose of stealing her son, her only child away from her. She had unleashed all her magic, used her shapeshifting abilities to transform into a monstrous spider. Yet damnably he had prevailed, and had her at his mercy. She looked into his eyes and begged for death in her moment of weakness, unwilling to live if her son was to be torn from her side.

He did not. He could not, would not, despite killing entire armies, despite having vanquished countless evils, despite having slain a dragon. He had stayed his hand and his blade, and Morrigan had escaped.

Doubtless the Teyrn had thought it an act of mercy. Or perhaps he still harboured some residual desire for her, a savage lust that his simpering songstress could never hope to fulfill. Long were the nights when he would come to her tent and they would mate like wild animals. Morrigan would ride him fiercely, without pause or respite, glorifying in the new heights of depraved agonising ecstasy in which she scaled with her Warden bedmate.

Whatever the reason he had let her go, and she had somehow found the strength to carry on. To heal her broken body and scarred flesh and shattered bones, while deep in her the emotional pain and loss and grief bled like a poisoned wound. Her physical wounds would heal. The pain she felt at being separated from her son would not. She had fled as far as she could get, while still trying to use her magic to catch even the most infinitesimal glimpse of the little baby who would grow up into a tall, pale, solemn young boy, fond of books and scholarly discourse. She had seethed as the red-headed whore had cast aside the name she had chosen for him and given him a new one instead. She had laughed with triumph as her son had cast his first spell, raged as he was sent away to be enslaved at the Circle Tower. Aedan had struck a huge blow against her that cold winter's night, and the memory of that defeat was humiliating.

But all things change in their time. The Teyrn was dead, or good as dead, having undertaken his Calling and setting off into the Deep Roads. Morrigan did not believe in a god of any sort, but if she had she would have thanked it for seeing fit to make Alistair accompany him as well. And Oghren too, now that was a bonus. All of them lay rotting in unmarked graves, while she still lived and breathed. It would seem that in the end, she had won.

But victory was far from her grasp. The bard still lived, and was a great influence in the politics of the kingdom as a member of the royal council. She had come to Denerim hoping to kill her once and for all. From the information she gathered, however, the Lady Cousland had returned to Highever. Fair Highever far to the North, serenaded by the sound of the Waking Sea crashing onto the shore and battering the cliffs, the city and lands where her son apparently now held dominion.

Her son, the mage with the power of an elder god. He was known to the commonfolk as Rolann Cousland, Senior Enchanter of the Circle Tower and now ruling Teyrn of Highever, but to her he would always be Morgan, the son she had loved and lost.

As a result of the injuries Aedan had inflicted on her she had nearly lost an eye and struggled to walk without her staff, not to mention a hundred other afflictions. Yet as long as she possessed her magic, she would appear to the world exactly how she wished.

Her features blurred subtly and smoothly, her body straightened and stood proud and upright. Sagging flesh firmed, wrinkles smoothed, scars healed over, hair grew long and thick and luxuriant, in the shade of midnight black. An old woman had been bent double in the pouring rain, yet it was a beautiful young girl who knocked on the door of the _Grey and Gold._

The inn was named for King Alistair, for his golden armour and Grey Warden status. It was one of the larger ones in Denerim, and was open at all hours of the night. The door creaked opened, and a suspicious face poked out. Behind him were the smells of fresh-roasted meat and the sounds of a hundred different conversations.

"Yer?"

Morrigan used her sultriest smile, a game played long ago but one in which all the steps were well remembered.

"I lost my way and need a bed for the night, kind sir."

The doorman cast an appreciative eye up and down the length of Morrigan's shapely frame. "From the Pearl, are yeh?"

"Indeed."

"Can't get in after hours then," he said triumphantly. "Queen's curfew."

Morrigan cursed silently, while moving closer and allowing the front of her robe to drop lower. "I'm sure we can...come to an agreement."

The doorman barked harsh laughter. "I'm sure we could. Get in quick then. I have to see to the ale round, but I'll be back." He opened the door and Morrigan stepped in.

"I can hardly wait," she muttered. Looking around, she thought it best to get what she came for without further delay.

After stealing a mug of ale and a bite of something hot, Morrigan quickly charmed a number of men into telling her the quickest way to get to Highever. She had been over all Ferelden with Aedan, but he had never gone near his ruined home. She needed to know the layout, the best possible routes, the location of nearby forests that could come in handy. Every scrap of information would be vital.

Eventually she made to leave, but the doorman caught her by the arm before she could do so. His grip was painful, his ragged nails digging into the flesh.

"Where do yeh think yer going?"

Morrigan forced herself to smile. "I haven't forgotten, my sweet. Let us just step outside for a moment."

"It's raining."

"If you could find us a better spot inside..." She had him there, the place was packed. After a moment's consideration in which his unibrow knotted furiously, the lout was forced to agree. Still holding her arm, they went out of the door and were once again in the back alley.

"Now then," he leered, undoing his breeches and pulling them down. "Get to work."

"'Twould be my pleasure," said Morrigan. She felt the familiar rush of power burning through her arms, the utter joy in tapping into the deep wellspring of magic in the world around her, to use that source of power to shape the world according to her whim.

Right now, she wished for the lout to be silent. So he was struck dumb.

Before he could react, she wished for him to remain rooted to the spot. So his feet were transfixed to the ground. His eyes widened in terror, his mouth open in a silent scream of horror.

Flinging her robes aside, Morrigan reveled in the rain slicking down her naked body. The storm itself was a source of unimaginable power. She let her mind open up to it, felt the energy coursing through her veins...

And transformed into a monstrous spider.

She barely fit in the narrow alley, her hairy legs scraping the walls. Her fearsome mandibles clicked and clattered like the gates to hell. Her bloated body gave off a powerful, rotting stench. Her eight eyes, all amber like her human ones, glowed with a fierce evil.

She allowed herself to savour the terror that the lout felt, seeing this nightmare made life brought before him, wanting nothing more than to run away and never stop and not being able to move an inch. His bowels spasmed and he fouled the breeches that were around his ankles, his arms waving around in abject, all-consuming terror.

The gigantic arachnid that was Morrigan advanced, and for a while there was the sound of the crunch of bones. But not screams. There were no screams to be heard.

A little while later, a cloaked and hooded figure was seen leaving the alley beside the inn of the _Grey and Gold. _And inside there was little more than some unidentifiable bits and a stain of blood, which was washed away by the pouring rain.


	2. Regicide

**Chapter 2 – Regicide**

**Dragon Age 9:57**

**The Royal Gamewoods outside Denerim**

"Try and keep up Duncan! I could go much faster than this!" Aeryn laughed, kicking the flanks of her horse with her heels and streaking ahead like a bolt of lightning. Its hooves pounded on the grass, breath heaving in and out from its nostrils like a blast of steam.

"Aeryn! Not so fast – catch up – the guards can't – slow down!" yelled Duncan from some distance behind, his words broken up by the sound of the rushing wind. The Crown Prince was a fair rider, but Aeryn had been sitting a saddle ever since she was five. Her long red hair streamed out behind her like a lord's war banner.

Aeryn loved riding, and had mastered it from an early age. Part of it was because of her fascination with stories about knights and warriors, and they had to be good horsemen. Of particular interest was her personal heroine Aveline the First, the first ever female chevalier of legend. She had unhorsed all comers in her first tourney as a mystery participant, and in doing so won the right for all women everywhere to fight alongside men. Aeryn had vowed to do the same, and won quite a number of tourneys herself back in Highever when she came of age.

However, the real reason why she loved to ride was because it reminded her of her father. Her mother had handled every other part of her education, often sending the Highever scholar Master Alanna away in favour of teaching Aeryn herself. Leliana had taught her history, music, Ferelden, Orlesian and Antivan, and even a little bit of Ancient Tevinter. Also not to mention all the girly stuff like sewing and housekeeping and social etiquette. She had sat through all her lessons, bored most of the time. She couldn't wait for the times when Aedan had interrupted whatever she was doing with a kiss on the head and a loud shout of "Let's go outdoors, Ryn, it's too lovely a day to waste!"

After her kidnap in Denerim, he had taught her how to use the sword. Slowly at first, with wooden practice models. Then later with specially-made rapiers designed to fit a child's hand. He told her a master swordsman practised every day until his weapon became a part of his arm, and she had taken him at his word. Thereafter part of every day was devoted to swordplay. She learned from various teachers, fencing masters, soldiers, and even her father's friends Oghren and Zevran when they came to visit. But none could teach her better than her father could.

The Teyrn used a sword and shield, so she followed suit. But after much persuasion, he had convinced her mother to teach her how to dual-wield swords as well. She took to both fighting styles as easily as a duck takes to water. When he saw how much progress she made, and after pleading with him for ages, Aedan taught her the other parts of being a knight as well. How to use the lance and recognise heraldic device and the vows of knighthood. But most of all, horsemanship. Aeryn might have been skilled with a blade, but being a knight was all about handling a horse.

She had taken rides on horses before, but the Teyrn then taught her how to use one in battle. A trained warhorse was an invaluable asset, and remaining in the saddle was a great advantage to a knight. Of course, they had ridden for fun as well, sometimes with Leliana and Rolann and Darien following behind, but most of the time just the two of them exploring the lands around Highever. She loved those times. Her father was a busy man and she didn't get to see him often, but he always found time to ride alongside her whenever she wanted. They would talk of many things, of all the Teyrn had seen and done, of Aeryn's lessons and training, and hopes and dreams for the future.

It had been two years, and she still missed her father every day. She was grateful that he had managed to attend her wedding, and had the chance to give her away to her husband. She was also grateful that she had the chance to say goodbye and tell him everything that she wanted to say before he left for the Deep Roads forever. She knew most people didn't get the chance. However Aeryn was still a little bit sad. Her father had always been around for her. But she was a married woman now, wife to a prince and the future king of Ferelden, and she had to put such childish sentiments aside.

It had been an arranged marriage, agreed upon by both their fathers when they were still babes. From what she heard Queen Anora had made some noise, but Alistair had remained firm on the matter, intending for his House and the House of his best friend to be joined. She had grown up with Duncan, played with him when they were children, was courted by him when they were teens. Everyone had always assumed that they would get married, so it was a shock for Aeryn to find out mere weeks before the wedding. She'd always ignored any talk about a betrothal, never having been interested in that kind of stuff at all. Duncan was a good friend, and had grown into a wonderfully charming and erudite young man, but she hadn't been sure if she was ready for marriage.

It had been an eventful two years though, and she had to admit she was getting used to the married life. Duncan had proven to be a thoughtful, caring husband, as well as a great lover (even if she did say so herself). Her mother was also frequently around, Alistair having made Leliana a permanent member of the Royal Council before leaving for the Deep Roads. Although Aeryn loved her mother they had never really been close, but in the last couple of years things had changed. Aeryn found herself talking more and more with her mother whenever she visited the capital, and had come to appreciate her company and advice. It made for a nice change from dealing with Queen Anora on a daily basis, around whom Aeryn always felt like she was being assessed like a prize bull on market day.

She reigned in her horse and waited for the rest of the group to catch up in the shade of a huge tree, which they did eventually.

"My lady, it is not advisable to simply go tearing off at a moment's notice," said Duncan when he'd caught his breath.

"Why not?"

"There could be danger!"

"What danger? These are the royal gamewoods, Duncan. It's perfectly safe."

Duncan looked annoyed at being argued with, and Aeryn was sure a couple of the guards were trying to hide their smiles. The only thing that Duncan liked less than being talked back to was being mocked. Aeryn decided to let it go.

"All I'm asking is for you to -"

"I understand. I won't do it again."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"You won't?"

"Nope."

"Truly?"

"Truly," said Aeryn. She blew him a kiss. "You're so sweet, my love. I won't give you cause to worry any more."

Her husband lost his peeved expression and gave her one of his roguish half-smiles that she found incredibly endearing, for some reason. "Well, enough said then. Let's head back to the palace."

"As you will."

Aeryn turned her horse around and set off for the palace. But this time she made sure she kept pace with Duncan's horse.

It hadn't been the easiest of beginnings to their union. First of all Duncan seemed positively hostile towards her elder brother Rolann, whom after her father was probably the person she was closest to. Duncan and Rolann had never really seen eye-to-eye, but tensions had definitely mounted ever since her wedding day. Rolann seemed to understand and mostly spent his time back in Highever where he ruled as the new Teyrn. Although there was less conflict, she hated the fact that she only ever got to see her brother once in a blue moon.

Then there was the problem of her 'unique' behaviour, as her mother had delicately put it. Aeryn liked swords and horses and tourneys, and she had the scars and the muscles to show for it. She'd beaten Duncan in a sparring match when they were little more than kids, years ago, a fact that seemed to rankle to this day. Duncan probably didn't care that his wife could fight better than he could, he was an average swordsman at best. But he cared that other people cared.

In order to avoid the possibility of her husband being mocked, Aeryn had been forced to give up her armour and weapons and spend her days doing ladylike things that her mother enjoyed but which she found utterly tedious. She could never participate in another tourney, it wouldn't be proper for a future queen. Even the gift her father had left in her care, his wondrous longsword Starfang, was now taking pride of place in a trophy room, and not worn in a scabbard at her hip.

Some days she hated it, and yearned to just walk out of the royal palace and become a knight errant wandering the land, just like her younger brother Darien was doing, along with Oghren's son Ayden. But Aeryn had always done her duty, be it muck out the stables or cleaning her room or ensuring the permanent bond between Houses Cousland and Theirin. She knew her marriage was important to both her parents, and she did not want them to be worried about her.

So she had traded her steel for silks, and learned to bite her tongue when Queen Anora made a particularly cutting remark, of which there had been many of late. It had been two years, and although they had tried Aeryn was still not pregnant. It was a prickly subject especially where the Queen was concerned, because she herself had been barren for five years and more and had received much grief for it. There were complications from her side of the family as well. Her own mother Leliana had only given birth to her after seven long years, Grey Wardens like her father tended not to have children.

The realm of course thought that Rolann was Leliana's first born. But though Leliana regarded him as her child, the truth was very different. Only Aeryn's immediate family knew that her brother was the son of the witch Morrigan, the most mysterious of her father's companions during the Blight.

Duncan interrupted her thoughts with a laugh at some joke a guard had made.

"...yes, and the Qunari will sail here too! Don't be daft, Runcorn. Aeryn love, would you like some wine? It's still cold."

"No, thank you."

"Ah? Would be a shame to let this go begging," said Duncan, and tipped the wineskin into his open mouth, gulping down every drop. He then produced a silk handkerchief and wiped his mouth. Duncan wasn't the type to use the back of his hand.

"We're nearly there, we should be just in time to have dinner with Mother."

Aeryn managed a smile. "It would be a pleasure."

**Denerim**

**The Royal Palace**

Aeryn knew it was unfair to constantly compare things in her new life to the ones she remembered from back home, but she did it anyway. Despite spending two years in Denerim, Highever would always be home to her.

Take the dining room, for instance. In Castle Cousland the dining room was rather small and cosy, with windows that faced out to the sea. The smell of the salt air and the sound of the waves always gave her a good appetite, and as the room was small it meant that the diners had to sit close together. This naturally allowed for easier conversation, and a more intimate atmosphere. Aeryn had spent many happy hours there, feeding scraps from the table to her father's Mabari hound Baskerville, flinging vegetables at her little brother when her parents were busy flirting with each other and not paying attention.

The dining room at the royal palace wasn't quite as convivial. It was massive, having been built with the intent of seating every noble within Ferelden's borders. Over time it had been used to host official dinners where the royal family would entertain visiting heads of state and other dignitaries. Although there was a roaring fire at one end, and a few candles and chandeliers at the other the room remained quite dim. Impossibly expensive and ancient ornaments and paintings and other antiques hung on the walls, which were panelled in oak. Fur rugs fashioned from the hides of great beasts covered the stone floor, previous kings having enjoyed hunting. Whenever Aeryn stepped inside she always felt she had to lower her voice and smoothen down her clothes.

Of course, she also felt that way whenever she was in the presence of Queen Anora. Aeryn half-wished they were using one of the extremely long tables, that way she would have an excuse not to join in the conversation. But the Queen had ordered the servants to prepare a more normal sized square table, close to the fire.

Serving maids danced attendance on the Queen while she ate, ensuring she lacked for nothing. Her father had hated being waited upon, and usually sent the maids away once they had set the table. Aeryn picked at her food and tried to keep up with the conversation.

"You're not eating much," said Anora suddenly. "Is it the food? I can have a fresh dish served if you like."

"No, Mother," Aeryn said hurriedly. "It's quite satisfactory." To prove her point she hastily ate some of her potatoes, and the Queen's expression softened somewhat.

"We can't have you being sick, not at a time like this. Are you sure you're not with child?"

Aeryn wished she didn't blush quite so easily.

"I'm afraid not, Mother."

Anora didn't answer, but her tightened lips and the look she shot her son might as well have done.

"It's only a matter of time," cut in Duncan, coming to her rescue. He tried to turn the conversation around to the topic of the royal gardens, but the Queen was having none of it.

"This is worrying," said Anora, looking back at Aeryn. "The sooner you can give me a grandchild, the better."

Aeryn wondered idly what would happen if she pointed out the fact that Anora had been childless herself for five years. She suspected that fighting her father's archdemon would be a less frightening experience.

"All things in their time, Mother, as the Maker wills."

"Don't interrupt, Duncan. The realm has been uneasy ever since your father died, and it could do with a little stability. I have been hearing strange rumours and mutterings...the Qunari have been sighted far from Par Vollen and Rivain, and in great numbers."

"Surely you don't think they intend to come here."

"Of course not, but it's scaring the peasants. It would be good for them to know that House Theirin has a future to look forward to."

Privately, Aeryn wondered whether Queen Anora had truly ever cared about Ferelden's peasantry, other than on tax day.

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"I'm not going to do anything except to remain very alert. What are you going to do about it, I wonder?"

"I'm – we're trying very hard, Mother."

"Try harder."

'Is this what you and the realm think of me?', thought Aeryn. 'Little more than a breeding sow. No one probably even remembers I unseated seven knights at a tourney joust once.'

Despite the excellent food and wine, Aeryn was pleased when dinner was finally over and she could take her leave. She headed to the stables, intending to check up on her horse. She found a young boy rubbing down her horse, and noted with approval that its feedbag had been topped up.

"Hello Mirka."

The boy turned around, and smiled in pleasure. Aeryn had rescued him from an abusive father and found him work as a stableboy, but at the time he was a timid, scared little mouse of a thing who would jump if someone so much as raised their voice at him. Mirka had grown however, and could finally look her in the eye while talking.

"Your highness! I was just finishing up."

"Oh, don't mind me. You're doing a good job, by the way. Keep it up."

"My lady is very kind to say so."

She talked to him for a while, leaning against the stall door while Mirka went on with his work. He seemed happy and content in his new position, and Aeryn found herself wishing she could be too. She bade him goodbye and went back up to her room.

The problem was there were few people she could truly confide in, she decided. Growing up she had been a quiet and reserved girl, and she made few friends her own age. Later she had led her own band of pages and squires-in-training around Highever's lands, fancying themselves knights and helping out people where they could. She had to break contact with them after she was married however, it wouldn't be proper for the wife of the Crown Prince to spend a lot of time around young men. There were the ladies of the court, but she hardly ever spoke to them. They were mostly the wives of Banns and Arls and other nobles, and had known each other since they were little girls playing with dolls. Since Aeryn had been in a courtyard training with a sword at that point in time, she wasn't really included in that circle of friends.

She wished her mother was around, and had to smile at the contrast. A few years ago she always seemed to end up arguing with her mother, now she was about the only person whom she could talk to. But Leliana had left the capital after her monthly Council meeting, and was on her way back to Highever.

Aeryn undressed, took a bath, and got ready for bed. She liked to read a book before turning in, whereas Duncan preferred to go to sleep immediately. Tonight however he was wide awake, and waiting for her.

"My love," he said softly, stroking her long red tresses. Aeryn preferred a shorter cut, it was cooler and easier to maintain, but she knew Duncan liked it worn long.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, then closed his lips over hers for a long, slow kiss. Aeryn responded passionately, feeling the heat rise up in her body. She ran her hands over his hard, muscled chest and opened her mouth to let his tongue in and dance with hers.

Despite everything she didn't like about her new life, she still loved her husband dearly. He had been the only man she had ever loved, as a matter of fact. Sometimes she entertained the fantasy of the two of them living together somewhere far away, beyond the reach of the palace, although she knew it could never be.

They made love slowly, sensually, then quickening the pace to a delicious extent until she locked her legs around his waist and gripped the sheets, moaning his name into his mouth. Duncan made her feel good, he made her feel loved and she would endure almost anything to be with him. She felt herself reaching her peak and nipped his neck hard. There would be a noticeable mark the next morning.

Duncan buried his face in her hair in his own moment of climax, spilling his seed within her. He withdrew and Aeryn felt the familiar sweet ache settle in her loins, a testament to the urgency of their lovemaking. She prayed for a baby to quicken within her, a strong happy healthy child whom she could raise together with the man she loved.

Duncan pulled her close and she rested her head on his chest. He whispered sweet nothings to her and after a few more kisses she drifted off to sleep.

**Denerim**

**Royal Palace**

**Bechamber of the Crown Prince**

A pounding at the door shook Aeryn out of her slumber. She opened an eye. The room was pitch dark, the candle having burned down and the sun not yet risen outside.

The pounding continued, and Duncan was roused. Wearily, he wiped his eyes and threw on a sleeping shift. He then went over to the door, cursing under his breath. Aeryn watched him go, blinking sleepily. The bedchambers were huge and the door was at an antechamber some distance away.

"What in the Maker's name is going on? It's not even dawn!" she heard Duncan say. The reply came back, a bit muffled. Aeryn couldn't hear it, but she did hear Duncan's sudden gasp of shock.

"Is something the matter?" she called. Duncan staggered back to the bed, eyes wide. He looked more agitated than Aeryn could ever recall seeing him.

"Aeryn," he said, in a voice that was almost unrecognisable. "It's Mother. The guards say she's dead. They say she's been assassinated."


	3. Anticipation

**Chapter 3 - Anticipation**

**Queen's Bedchamber**

**Royal Palace**

**Denerim**

Zevran looked over the grisly scene with the experienced eye of a professional. He was no stranger to death, in fact they had been old, old friends since childhood. Years spent performing untold missions for the Antivan Crows was more than sufficient preparation for the post of Royal Spymaster that Alistair offered him after taking the throne. Zevran had accepted gratefully, growing from little more than another tool to be used by the Crows into a powerful entity in his own right. He had served the House of Theirin faithfully for many long years, and kept the Royal Family safe from many insidious plots. Now one had at last slipped past his guard. There was a strange taste in his mouth, one which he had almost forgotten but recalled now with bitter clarity. It was the taste of failure.

Anora had been lying on her bed, the covers drawn almost to her chin. She could have been sleeping, except for two details. Firstly there was a look of pure horror on her face, her lips drawn back in a ghastly grin, her eyes wide and staring. But more importantly there was a vicious red slash right across where her throat used to be. The queen had spilled quite a lot of blood before she died, soaking into the sheets, splattered over the bedspread and pooling on the floor.

"This was no mere murder. This is assassination," said Zevran, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"How so?" asked one of the palace guard. He had been given orders to lock down the palace, but Zevran knew it was hopeless. Whoever it was, the assassin had to be long gone by now.

"Look at that cut. It was done with one stroke, something few people can do reliably. It severed the windpipe, so the queen had no time to scream or call out a warning. And it wasn't a clean kill either. There are ways to slit throats without spilling this much blood."

"I guess you would know all about that," said the guard heartily, before remembering that Zevran could have him thrown in the dungeons on a whim and shut up hurriedly. The elf didn't seem to notice, and continued staring at the body. Eventually he spoke again.

"Whoever did this wanted to send a message. A warning? A threat? You say no note was found anywhere near the body?"

"We checked, lord. None was found."

"Can't be a very clear message then," muttered another guard. Zevran turned on him, eyes narrowed and lip curled.

"Ah, but it is. This is a grievous blow against House Theirin. For all her...faults...the queen was highly respected amongst the greater community of Thedas royals. Some might say feared. The enemies of Ferelden will rejoice when they learn of this atrocity."

The guard gulped and nodded. The rest tried to look busy, none of them daring to catch Zevran's eye. One of Zevran's people came into the room and whispered something to him. He was an elf as well, but Zevran accepted just about anyone in his spy corps as long as they met his standards. They tended to be discreet and quiet young men and women whom you couldn't pick out of a line up, but there were rumours that they knew absolutely everything that occurred within the borders of the kingdom, and most things out of it.

"The prince wishes to see his mother's body?" repeated Zevran, frowning. The other elf nodded.

"Didn't I make clear that it would be unadvisable for the time being?"

"Yes, my lord. But he insisted."

"I'm amazed," said Zevran, heaving a sigh. "I suppose it was too much to hope for. The prince and his wife are safe, at least?"

Nod.

"Very well then, send him in."

The Crown Prince Duncan rushed into the room a few moments later, his face tight with worry. He went straight to his mother's body and held her hand, weeping openly. Aeryn came in after him, looking every bit as agitated as Duncan was. She caught Zevran's eye and he gave her a respectful nod. He had been close to Aedan's family while she was growing up, and made frequent visits to Highever. Privately he thought of her as his favourite of Aedan's three kids.

Aeryn knelt down beside her husband and tried to calm him down. Bit by bit, she succeeded. Zevran watched them glumly. He knew that after the initial shock would come anger, and he also knew that he would bear the brunt of it.

"Who did this? I want to know who did this!" Duncan demanded.

"My men are combing the palace, its grounds as well as the city, your highness. They will not rest until they have found the assassin."

"This was your responsibility, Zevran! Your job was to keep us safe from harm!"

Zevran lowered his eyes. "I accept that I have failed. I will do everything in my power to find the one responsible for the queen's death, my prince."

"He's king now, isn't he?" asked one of the guards, before being hurriedly shushed by his partner. But Duncan had heard. He stood a little straighter, and shook off the placating hand that Aeryn laid on his arm.

"Yes...yes I am. I am your king now. I have half a mind to put you to death right now for failing to protect us. My mother is dead. I could have been killed, or Aeryn. My court will need a new Spymaster."

"With respect, your majesty," said Zevran levelly. "It is of course within your power to install someone else in my place. I accept that the ultimate blame lies with me, as head of your security. But the position of Spymaster is an extremely difficult one to get used to. I have spent decades building up my network of contacts and sources of information. Removing me at this critical moment will result in an intelligence blackout for a lengthy spell of time. I beseech your majesty to let cooler heads prevail and give me another chance. I will find this assassin and bring him before you."

But Duncan's blood was up, and Zevran knew it was no use. The boy might look somewhat like Alistair, but he was brought up by and shaped primarily by his mother Anora. She had loved him like no other, and once quarantined the entire capital as a safety precaution when he was kidnapped. Duncan would not be placated by logic while his mother's blood stained the floor of her bedchamber.

"Guards, seize this -"

"Duncan, wait. Please."

It was Aeryn. She had subtly moved in between Zevran and Duncan, and spoke to her husband in her gentlest voice.

"Zevran has given Ferelden many long years of faithful service."

"Are you saying I cannot punish failure of this magnitude?"

"Of course not. We should have a new Spymaster. But imprisoning or executing Zevran would suit no purpose. Let him go free and instead allow him to work on his stated mission to find your royal mother's assassin."

"Let him go free? What if he decides to take revenge and kill me next?"

"You shame me, your majesty. More so than your mother's death ever could," said Zevran quietly.

"Duncan," said Aeryn, a little more stern. "Zevran fought alongside both our fathers in the Blight. He kept our families safe for many long years. He is a good man and deserves better than the accusations you are throwing at him."

Aeryn softened her tone and took Duncan's hand. This time he did not pull away.

"Show mercy, my king. Allow a friend of our fathers to atone for his failure."

That was a nice touch, reflected Zevran. Appealing to the young man's pride. No doubt he liked the idea of appearing a wise and just king, of which his father was a splendid example. Perhaps an ideal that would be just a little bit too difficult to try and live up to.

Duncan glared at Zevran, a muscle working in his jaw. The elf averted his eyes, it was not wise to maintain eye contact with a hostile king.

"So be it," he said at last. "Be thankful my gentle wife is far more inclined to show mercy than I am. You are hereby stripped of your position of Royal Spymaster, Zevran Arainai. I expect you to leave the palace by dawn."

"As your majesty wills," murmured Zevran. "Nevertheless, I will work to find your mother's assassin."

"Do what you wish, I care not. Now get out of my sight."

Zevran bowed and made to leave, but not before giving Aeryn a look of gratitude. She remained tight-lipped however, and didn't say a word. Zevran didn't hold it against her. She was in an uncomfortable position and had already stuck her neck out for him.

He walked out of the bedchamber, feeling strangely light-hearted. For twenty seven long damn years he had worked tirelessly on behalf of the Ferelden crown. He had his compensations, Alistair being a particularly generous friend, but the job did not come without risks. Then he had to go and make a promise to both Alistair and Aedan that he would watch over their children. Zevran found breaking oaths easier than breaking wind, but he would never betray a promise made to those two. It was going to be hard to do that without the resources of his former position, but he was sure he could find a way.

He had a clear mission, to find the person who killed Anora, and to find out why. He had nothing to go on but the faintest of leads, nothing to rely on but his own wits and reflexes, and no resources except what he could carry. It was like being thrust back to a simpler time with the Crows, where all he had to do was to accomplish the task set by the Guildmaster. How he did it was entirely up to him.

No more desk or paperwork or endless reports. No more budget concerns and worrying about what other spies in other courts were trying to do. Let some other bugger figure that out. Duncan hadn't even asked him to train his successor, something which Zevran was certain he would be extremely regretful for come morning. All he had to do was to scour the length and breadth of Ferelden for a single assassin, a comparatively easier task. And he had just the fellows in mind to help him with the job.

As Zevran walked down the corridor and down the steps leading out of the palace, he was whistling a little tune.

**Throne Room, Castle Cousland**

**Highever**

Teyrn Rolann Cousland slumped in his chair and tried not to fall asleep. He'd been in this position many, many times before as a young lad, watching and learning from all the little legal and bureaucratic matters that his father had sorted out as part of his daily duties as Teyrn. He had enjoyed the proceedings, often giving his opinion on a matter that his father would actually take into consideration. But Rolann was discovering it was slightly more difficult when one was actually in the chair making the final decision.

There was just so much to get through. Aedan had worked from daybreak all the way to noon without stopping, every single day. Rolann had resolved to keep to the same schedule and he was sorely regretting it.

He had thought himself prepared for the role of Teyrn, having been a Senior Enchanter at the Circle Tower. But there he was just one of a group, and magic was far easier for him to understand than crop failures and guard rotas and tax rebates and stockbreeding and king's revenue and all the other little niggling matters that warranted his attention until he felt like hurling himself off the topmost tower of Castle Cousland and into the sea.

Rolann envied his sister Aeryn, who was no doubt living a life of luxury and comfort at the royal palace. And his brother Darien, who was roaming the land doing Maker knew what whenever and wherever he pleased. For half a second he wished his father had given the title to either one of them.

But he knew his father had considered it a great honour. Aedan had given the title he valued the most to his eldest son, even though he was by Ferelden standards, technically a bastard. If anyone knew that Rolann wasn't actually the son of Aedan's lawful wife Leliana he would have been chased out of Highever by mobs with torches and pitchforks. Both his parents had made immense sacrifices to ensure that he would be named the next Teyrn of Highever, Leliana most of all.

Still, he wished the job wasn't so bloody boring.

"The next case your grace?" asked Seneschal Vordun, the aged castle steward who had served his father. Rolann had kept most of the old staff in place to ensure a smoother transition.

"Oh, all right then."

"You might also like to know that your mother has sent word. She will be back in Highever by tomorrow morning."

"Ah, good. Send the usual escort party, would you Vordun?"

"I shall notify Hrun immediately." Hrun was the captain of the Highever guard.

"Thank you."

Rolann returned to his work, feeling a little more optimistic. Leliana was no longer Teyrna, but she was still a valued influence. When she wasn't in the capital sitting on the royal council or visiting one of her lady friends, she helped Rolann out, giving him advice if he sought it. If Rolann ever wished he could know what his father would have done in a certain situation, Leliana would tell him in no uncertain terms exactly what Aedan would have done, and said, and how he would have gone about doing it. It was something that still made him smile.

**Highever**

The city wasn't anything like what Morrigan was expecting. To hear Aedan talk about it, Highever was bigger than Denerim and grander than Val Royeaux and had more history than Amaranthine. Then again he was a nostalgic fool.

Highever was a coastal city, and there were an abundance of fishermen and sailors and merchant traders about, but even so it looked far more orderly and civilized than another city of comparable size. She walked down the streets, and noted that everyone in the city seemed to know each other. The people of Highever tended not to move around much, proud as they were of their home. The strong winds and sound of the waves were as much a part of them as the local dialect and food. They were a fast-talking, quick-witted bunch, not overly book-smart but could run rings around the next poor sod who made the mistake of underestimating them.

This would make it a lot harder to blend it, but Morrigan supposed she could always set herself up as a traveller fresh off a ship. She had spent enough time in the Free Marches to imitate their accent, and if push come to shove there was always her magic.

She looked at the outline of the castle in the distance, looming over the rest of the city. Arl Howe had tried his best to destroy the ancestral home of the Couslands, but stone does not burn and Aedan had done much to rebuild and improve it upon his triumphant return. The laurel wreath banner of House Cousland flew high above the battlements, flanked by the spear and raindrop banner of the city.

Her son was somewhere in there. From the information she gathered, she knew that Aedan had made her son the next Teyrn before she died. Morrigan would have loved to see the look on the pathetic bard's face when that decision was made, doubtless she had been expecting that honour to go to one of her own children. But apparently Aedan had won out, and her son was now the ruling Teyrn of Highever.

This was the closest she had ever been to her son since he was a year old, since he was snatched away from her by Aedan and his whore. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to simply summon her magic and be borne up to the castle on the winds of a storm and meet her son face to face, now that Aedan wasn't here to stop her. Just to see him in person, to touch him after years of relying on glimpses caught through a crystal ball...

She wanted so badly to hold him and call him by his true name. There was so much she had to teach him, so much she had to tell him. All the eldritch powers of an elder god flowed through his veins, he was a source of unimaginable power. He still could fulfill the destiny she envisioned for him, corrupted as he was by the Circle Tower and the Chantry.

Morrigan ground her teeth at the very thought. To think that her son would be subject to the very two institutions she hated most in the world and yearned to see burned clean to the ground forever, purged from the pages of history.

Still, there would be time for that later. Her son could level the Circle Tower, kill every single templar if only someone would show him the way. And who better than his own mother, the infamous Witch of the Wilds?

Lost in her thoughts, Morrigan almost bumped into a group of guards coming down the path towards her. She lowered her head, her hood helping to hide her face. She intended not to attract any attention to herself, at least for the time being.

"Where are we going sarge?"

"Hrun's put us on escort duty lad. We're to ride out and meet the Teyrna."

"Again? I thought we did that last time."

"And we're doing it again, so stop yer nattering."

The guards marched off, not noticing the woman in the black robes staring thoughtfully after them.

Leliana was outside the city? Not in the castle, as she'd assumed.

Perhaps it was time to prepare a little welcome.


	4. Royal Succession

**Chapter 4 – Royal Succession**

**Dragon Age 9:48**

**Castle Cousland**

Leliana walked into the dining room and was surprised to find the table set and her children sitting quietly, with Aedan nowhere to be seen. He tended to wake up and slip away to do his morning workout before settling himself down in the dining room for a good long hour while he cleaned out half of the castle's kitchen stores. Leliana was not a morning person, preferring a nice lie-in instead, and she couldn't quite recall ever having arrived at breakfast before her husband.

She looked at Aeryn and Darien suspiciously. They were sitting in their chairs like little angels, looking as cute as could possibly be. Just the other day Leliana had to reprimand Aeryn for throwing a whole ear of corn at her brother. Mealtimes were noisy, chaos-filled events in the Cousland household. She hadn't enjoyed a quiet breakfast since Aeryn was born.

"Where's your father, dears?" she asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

"No idea," said Darien quickly. Aeryn just giggled, covering her mouth with both hands.

"Children," she said, feeling slightly exasperated. "I know you're up to something."

"Huh? How could you know?" exclaimed Darien, looking crestfallen.

"It's as plain as the nose on your face, Dare."

"My nose? You could tell from my nose?"

"Ryn darling, tell me what's going on please."

"I'm sorry mama, daddy said not to tell you." said Aeryn firmly.

"Even if I asked?"

"Especially if you asked."

"What else did he say?"

"Daddy said that he'll be back soon, and we're to go ahead and start without him."

Leliana gave up. Whatever mischief Aedan was planning, she would find out sooner or later. And if necessary, she knew how to make him pay for it. Aedan was the world's worst victim of the dreaded silent treatment. One day of silence from her was enough to get him begging for mercy.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and couldn't help but smile as the rich aroma filled her nostrils. It was imported at great expense from Orlais and roasted according to her instructions by trained kitchen assistants. She would love Aedan even if they had to sleep in a muddy ditch, but there were definitely advantages that came with being the Teyrna of Highever.

Aeryn and Darien were eating their pancakes with a civility she didn't know they were capable of. Aedan must have gone to great lengths to ensure their cooperation. Despite herself she was beginning to wonder what he was up to.

"Has something gone wrong?" she asked.

"Yeah, Ryn's face," said Darien, and there was a muffled thud and a yelp as he was kicked in the shin.

"Ryn!"

"Sorry. Nothing's gone wrong. It's a surprise!"

"It's not a surprise any more now you've told!" said Darien, sticking out his tongue.

"I'll pretend to be surprised then," said Leliana. "Now, no more fighting."

"Ok."

"Uh-huh."

The rest of breakfast was finished in peace, and Aedan still hadn't come in. Leliana began to feel a little more worried. She pushed her plate away and stood up.

"I'm just going to look for your father..."

But she was interrupted by the entrance of a grinning Aedan. He had his hands behind his back and looked absurdly pleased with himself.

"Aedan, where've you been?"

"Morning love. Give us a kiss then."

Leliana leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Aren't you going to answer me?"

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Come on Leli. Close your eyes."

Leliana did as he asked, and felt him slip something around her neck. She smelled something sweet and achingly familiar, and opened her eyes in delight.

She was wearing a garland of Andraste's Grace flowers, linked together by a length of twine. Each flower was extremely rare, often a single specimen would grow alone in a large field. Aedan had obviously made a lot of effort to find enough to make an entire chain.

"They're beautiful. Thank you darling." She gave Aedan another kiss, longer and deeper this time.

"They're nice huh? And bloody difficult to find as well, had a devil of a time getting the last five..."

"It's very sweet of you." She chuckled. "When the kids said you were up to something, I wasn't expecting this."

"Did you two give it away?" asked Aedan, advancing 'menacingly' on Aeryn and Darien. They shrieked with laughter and leapt off their chairs, running around the room. Aedan caught them both and wrapped them up in a bear hug.

"They did their best," said Leliana.

"So you already know about the trip?"

"What trip?"

"The one we're taking today. We're going to visit Rolann and spend a few days by Lake Calenhad. There's a lovely little cabin near the Tower, and we can swim and fish and have picnics and everything."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful!"

"Mama does sound surprised," said Darien, looking satisfied.

"She is surprised, you twit. We didn't tell her about the trip. We're going swimming!"

Aedan set his children down. "Run along kids, go grab your stuff and meet us in the entrance hall. Five minutes!" Aeryn and Darien rushed off. Aedan embraced his wife and held her close.

"What about the packing?"

"I've seen to the packing. I do know how to organise a family vacation you know."

"This is simply marvellous Aedan, but what's the occasion?"

Aedan raised an eyebrow. "You mean you really don't know?"

"No, dear."

"Leli love, it's the anniversary of the day we first met in Lothering, all those years ago. Don't you remember?"

"I had no idea! We've never marked the occasion before."

"I know, but I felt that we should. It'll be another family tradition."

Leliana kissed Aedan on the tip of his nose, making him blink in surprise. "I love you, you dear sweet man."

Aedan laughed. "Wonder what the scribes and the bards will call me in the tales. Aedan the Dragonslayer or Aedan the loving husband?"

"Aedan darling, since I'm the one who's going to be writing down those tales I'll call you whatever I like."

**Dragon Age 9:57**

**North Road leading to Highever**

"My lady? We're almost at the city gates."

Leliana opened her eyes, and blinked sleepily. She'd been dreaming about Aedan again. She stretched her arms and sat up a little straighter in the coach seat.

She still could remember every last detail about that trip. They had gone fifty wheels before Aedan remembered he left his swimming costume behind, and made them wait while he rode back and grabbed it. Then they had run into a bereskarn, but fortunately it decided that it wasn't hungry and wandered off. They had great fun once they reached Lake Calenhad though, with Rolann coming to join them. He had challenged his father to a swimming contest, and Aedan legs had cramped up and he nearly drowned. Leliana had to dive in herself to save him.

She smiled at the memory. From time to time she would have these dreams about Aedan, and the many happy years she had spent by his side. Sometimes it would be of the family, at other times it would be just the two of them on their travels all over Thedas, or even journeying together during the Blight.

There was always a kind of bittersweet sadness when she woke up from one of those dreams. Inevitably she would miss him, and her thoughts would turn once again to her husband, lost in the Deep Roads. But over time she had come to accept these dreams as little blessings from the Maker. If he was dead Aedan's spirit walked the Fade now, and she was certain her dreams were his way of keeping in touch.

The coach rattled along, jarring her bones. Leliana found that she enjoyed her trips back home from the palace much more than the journey to it. Although it was always nice to see Aeryn again, the meetings of the Royal Council were getting more and more contentious. Leliana found herself often disagreeing with the queen, and it was rare that she managed to get her to see things her way. There had been intelligence reports from the Free Marches for instance, detailing the ominous launch of several Qunari warships. The queen had decided upon further reconaissance for the time being, without taking any action.

Leliana appreciated the time spent with her daughter, now that she was older and had a husband of her own. It gave them much common ground to talk about, whereas before Aeryn had led a life much more like Aedan's.

She could tell that her daughter was worried as more time went on and she still remained childless. Leliana herself had endured the same thing, although she did have Rolann to raise and take her mind off things. There was little she could do for Aeryn, aside from listening to her whenever she felt like talking, which was not all that often.

Leliana was rather looking forward to getting back to Highever. She filled her days with writing down and documenting every one of her adventures with Aedan and the history of the Blight, and was determined to produce a classic that would stand the test of time. In Orlais bards were revered not only as musicians and spies, but also keepers of history.

A stiff breeze rolled in through the window, and Leliana recognised the salt tang of Highever air. It was one of the first signs that she was approaching home.

The coach rounded a bend, and trundled through a forest path. There were about ten wheels of trees to get through before they could see the city walls.

A loud, sharp howl made Leliana gasp in shock. From the sound of it, the beast doing the howling wasn't too far away. Wolves had been known to stalk Highever's forests, but in small numbers and very rarely during the summertime. More howls joined the first one, until it sounded like the whole slavering pack were mere inches away.

Leliana was jolted around as the coach picked up speed. Other than the driver and the guard beside him, there were only two guards on horseback escorting her to the city. It would be five if it came to fighting, but Leliana was wearing an elegant court dress, completely impractical for fighting. She had neglected to bring her longbow, and only had a small dagger in the coach. She had made the trip to Denerim and back countless times, and never ran into trouble once. She cursed herself for becoming complacent.

"Dear Maker, guide your humble servants through danger and see them safely home," she said quietly, head bowed, hands clasped.

She heard a scream of horror from one of her guards. "Wolves! A whole bloody pack!"

"Keep riding! Protect the Teyrna!"

She wasn't the Teyrna, not anymore, but at a time like this she felt it would be unwise to distract her guards. Leliana snatched up the dagger and prepared herself.

There was a dreadful scream of terror from the horses, who had detected the presence of the wolves. The driver was struggling desperately to keep them under control, but there was a tremendous crash as the coach overbalanced while turning a corner and fell onto its side. Leliana struggled to get out by the window, her task made harder by the horses frantic attempts to break free of the stranded coach.

She stood on the wreck of the coach and assessed the situation with practiced rapidity. Aedan had taught her that every second counted in a battle situation. It would have been useless to run, as the wolves would overtake them in moments on foot.

She might have ridden away, had the horses not been maddened by the threat of the approaching wolves. Perhaps they could have climbed up a tree, but the ones that were around had no handy branches near the ground and they would not have supported their weight. They would have to stand and fight.

"Osgred, hand me your bow!" she commanded. Leliana thanked the Maker that her guard escort had seen fit to carry a bow and a quiver. The other men were only armed with swords. Osgred did as she asked.

"Cut the horses loose!" Without another word the driver did so, and the horses bolted away. Quite a number of wolves went tearing after them, which was the outcome she'd hoped for. Yet there were still a lot of wolves left, heading for the overturned caravan. Far too many of them.

"Keep the Teyrna safe, men!' ordered Osgred, and they formed up in front of Leli. The man had courage in abundance. Even Aedan had once faltered in the face of onrushing wolves.

As soon as the first wolf came bounding within range Leliana struck. With an ease borne of countless hours of repetition, she drew an arrow, nocked it and fired, sending the shaft straight down the wolf's gullet and out again through the back of its head in a spray of blood. Before it dropped dead Leliana had already fired her second arrow. She had to shoot as many of them as possible before they closed in.

A few wolves died, but not enough. And then they were upon her little group.

The driver was the first to die, his leg caught and held as other wolves tore him apart. Leliana avenged his death by burying arrows into the skulls of each one, but his dying cries would haunt her for many nights to come. Assuming she survived this.

Osgred and the other two guards tried valiantly to fight, but there were far too many for three men to battle, even with Leliana killing as many as she could. Jon, the young boy dropped his sword with a cry of pain as a wolf snapped at his wrist. Before he could pick it up more jaws ripped at his throat. Some of the wolves had circled round the back of the coach and were leaping onto it. Leliana had to kick them off before feverishly reloading and firing.

Dharn fell next, a pile of dead bodies around him. He had been a quiet man, barely speaking two words on the journey to and back from Denerim. Now he would never say another, and Leliana grieved for him. They had thinned the numbers but there still far too many wolves to kill.

As Leliana shot her last arrow and flung the bow aside, drawing her dagger instead she found a great calm and peace wash over her, as ludicrous as it seemed. After Aedan had died she found herself no longer fearing death as much as she used to. She prepared to meet whatever end the Maker had prepared for her.

A huge thunderclap boomed, seeming to shake the very trees. A bolt of lightning screamed down from the sky, the flash blinding Leliana for a few moments. When she could open her eyes and see again, several wolves lay dead, the bodies burnt beyond recognition. The grass was burning, smoke rising in the air.

"MOTHER!" screamed a voice. One she knew well, and her heart rejoiced to hear it.

Rolann came thundering up from the opposite end of the path, astride the huge black stallion that he favoured for riding. One hand was gripping the reigns, the other was raised with magical fire swirling around his fingertips. He had summoned the lightning bolt in the nick of time.

The rest of Rolann's guard followed behind, and they made short work of the blinded and deafened wolves that remained. Leliana suddenly felt exhausted beyond belief. She had pushed herself at a pace she hadn't been accustomed to for decades, and her body was paying for it.

"Mother, are you alright? Are you hurt?" exclaimed Rolann, leaping off his horse and hurrying to her side.

"I'm fine, thanks to you," said Leliana, allowing herself to be helped up. "Osgred, someone check on Osgred!"

But she saw her last guard lying dead, having fallen on the remains of the coach. His arm was still gripping the hilt of his sword, which was shoved down the jaws of a dead wolf.

"Has he...did I..." asked Rolann nervously, looking at the body.

"No," sighed Leliana. "One of those damned wolves got to him. Not your spell, love."

"Oh. Good."

"Osgred was a brave man. As were the other guards. Please, I would like them to receive a proper burial."

"Of course mother," agreed Rolann. He gave instructions for his men to carry the bodies back to Highever.

As they prepared to leave Leliana thought she saw a dark shadow flit out of sight from somewhere beyond the treeline. But when she took a second look, it had disappeared.

**Castle Cousland**

It had been two days since the attack, and Leliana was still a little shaken. She had endured much worse, but never so near her home. Rolann had sent his men scouring the woods but they had yet to turn up a trace of any wolf packs in the area.

"It's all very strange," mused Rolann. They were in his study, and he was drafting a letter to some Bann or the other. Rolann liked peace and quiet while he worked, and Leliana felt she could do with some. She was sitting by the fire, sipping from a cup of tea.

"I had a talk with Master Alanna, and she says she can't remember the last time there'd been a wolf attack around Highever. And she's been around for like, forever."

"I was careless. I should have used a different road."

"Now mother, you've used that road all the time and nothing of the sort's happened before. You can't blame yourself. I'm just glad you're safe."

"So am I, Rolann."

She watched her son at work, and couldn't help but think of Aedan doing the same. They were very similar in their methods, preferring to talk and using their force of personality to smooth things over. Rolann was more of a scholar than his father was however, and if the personal touch failed he could always entrap a dissenter in legal technicalities. He was growing into his role as Teyrn, and Aedan would have been proud.

"Do you remember the first time we went down to the lake?" asked Leliana suddenly. "Your father couldn't swim as well as he thought, and we had to rescue him."

Rolann looked up from his work, grinning at the recollection. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. That was a fun day all round."

But before they could reminisce about the trip, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter," said Rolann.

The Seneschal of the castle, old Vordun came into the study. Vordun had been Aedan's seneschal, and even in his advanced age he still served the House of Cousland. He bowed as low as he could.

"Your grace. My lady."

"Good evening, Vordun. What brings you here?"

"A letter just arrived by raven, your grace. It bears the royal seal."

Leliana and Rolann exchanged glances. A letter direct from the palace, so soon after Leliana's council meeting would carry significant news.

"Thank you Vordun," said Rolann. The old man shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Rolann opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. His eyes widened in shock.

"What is it?" asked Leliana.

"I don't believe it. It's from Duncan. Queen Anora's dead. He says she's been assassinated."

"Aeryn? Is she safe?" asked Leliana at once. Her hands were gripping the arm rests of the chair so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

"Yes, Aeryn's safe, thank the Maker. Mother, this is insane. Why would anyone want to kill Anora?"

"A great many reasons. She was Ferelden's queen, and that alone made her a target. Rolann, we have to go back to Denerim for the funeral."

"Yes," said Rolann, looking distracted. "We'll need an escort, I'll start making the preparations. Anora's dead, I just can't believe it."

"I wish father was here," he said suddenly. "He would have known what to do best."

His words struck a chord in Leliana, she had wished for the same thing countless times before.

"Aedan had his doubts and made his mistakes as well," she said. "What's important is how you learn from them. And I'm always here for you Rolann. You only need to ask."

Rolann smiled. "Thanks mother."

**Denerim**

It had been a nerve wracking journey to the capital. Rolann had insisted on doubling the guard, and didn't leave his mother's side throughout the trip. Although everyone was on edge and ready for trouble, it turned out to be a fairly uneventful journey.

As they made their way through the city Leliana noticed crowds of people talking anxiously to one another in the streets. Anora had been a part of Ferelden for as long as most people could remember. Even when Alistair and Cailan were around she was a reserved but strong influence on both local and international politics. No one could honestly say she was loved, but she was definitely respected and perhaps even a little feared. Anora had been a strong queen, and her death boded ill for the kingdom.

"This place is on the edge of revolt," muttered Rolann.

"There are a lot of guardsmen about," commented Leliana. The browncoats were out in force, trying to keep the peace. At a time like this, just one spark was all it took to ignite an explosive situation.

They reached the palace as quickly as possible through the crowded streets. Leliana began to breathe a little easier once the gates were shut behind them.

"I would like to see my daughter, please," requested Leliana of the palace guard, once she had stepped out of her carriage.

"I apologise my lady, but the king has requested maximum security. We will escort you to your rooms and await further instructions."

"Excuse me?"

"This is ridiculous," said Rolann. "All we want to do is to see Aeryn for ourselves."

"I'm afraid I have my orders, your grace."

"Look, let me talk to Zevran," said Leliana. "I'm sure he'll see reason."

"Zevran Arainai is no longer Royal Spymaster. He has been relieved of his duties by the king," said the guard, with a stony gaze.

"Zevran sacked? Why? Where is he now?"

"I have no idea, my lady. Please, allow us to show you to your rooms."

"The king," muttered Rolann to his mother. "Duncan Theirin, king of Ferelden. Always hoped that day was long in the coming."

"Hush Ro, guard your tongue. You never know what news will get around."

They were led to a couple of comfortable rooms, with the customary rich furnishings and decorations. A jug of wine stood on a table, and Rolann poured himself a goblet before sinking into a chair.

"I just don't understand it," he said, his long hair framing his face. "Why Zevran? What's the point?"

"It was not a wise move," admitted Leliana. "Zevran is one of the canniest and most resourceful people I know. But it cannot be denied that he failed to keep the queen safe. Duncan's emotional right now, to say the least, and it is to be expected."

"Guess I should tread carefully then," remarked Rolann.

"Her highness Queen Aeryn will see you now," called a voice at a door. Aeryn rushed in a moment later and flung her arms around her mother. She looked haggard and drawn, her eyes as red as her hair.

"Mother, I'm so glad you're here. You too Rolann. It's been absolutely horrible, these past few days."

She calmed down a bit after drinking some wine. "Duncan rarely speaks to me, he's been doing so much and sleeping so little. He must be devastated at losing his mother, but he won't say a word about it and pushes me away every time I try."

Leliana was a little shaken at seeing her usually calm and competent daughter at a loss like this. She did her best to comfort her, with Rolann's help.

"The funeral's set for tomorrow," said Aeryn, clasping Leliana's hand. The official coronation will take place immediately afterwards. Duncan's going to be king, mother. He doesn't like to talk about it, but I know he's worried about the responsibility."

"We'll do everything we can to help. Won't we, Rolann?"

The mage brushed back his hair and forced up a confident smile. "Yes we will sis. Don't you worry."

**The Grand Chantry**

**Denerim**

Leliana had visited Denerim's Grand Chantry many times over the years. Although the one in Val Royeaux was larger and more lavishly decorated, the spiritual heart of Ferelden was just as important to its citizens. The ancient stonework was a reminder of the Ferelden fondness of practicality and simplicity, but stained-glass windows and beautifully carved statues of the Prophet and other holy figures had their place as well. Candles burned everywhere, their light almost too brilliant to behold.

The casket that held the body of the queen was on a raised platform at the far end of the chantry hall, surrounded by floral wreaths and candlestands. Beside it the Revered Mother was conducting the service, her rich voice rolling imperiously around the hall. There were mourners of every kind present, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the pews. Most were nobles and other important dignitaries, who had travelled from all corners of Ferelden. Leliana hadn't seen most of them since Aeryn's wedding.

"O Maker," intoned the Revered Mother, "Hear the voices of your faithful children. May the spirit of your humble and loyal devotee, Queen Anora of House Theirin, be blessed in your sight and welcomed to your holy kingdom to dwell forever after."

Most of the mourners managed to look appropriately solemn and serious, although Leliana suspected half of them were thinking along the same lines as her. She wasn't so sure that Anora actually believed in the Maker, although it was not done to speak ill of the dead.

The service was eventually concluded. Anora would be buried in the royal crypts, incidentally by the side of her first husband King Cailan. Alistair of course, had not left a body to be buried.

Leliana and Rolann waited patiently for their chance to speak to the new king. He was dressed all in black velvet with a thin gold band circling his brow, almost indistinguishable under his thick blond hair. Aeryn was by his side, in black as well.

"Goodmother," greeted Duncan, clasping Leliana's hand. His eyes rested on Rolann for a moment with a hint of disdain. "Cousland."

If Rolann bristled at the barb, he kept his temper under control. "Your majesty. My deepest sympathies on your mother's death. Queen Anora will be sorely missed."

"Please accept our condolences, Duncan," said Leliana. "Know that we will give you whatever assistance you may require in this difficult time."

"I...thank you, Leliana," said Duncan, his mask dropping for a moment. "I'm sure I will have need of your counsel before too long."

"Your majesty?" whispered a court official, elbowing his way into the circle. "It's time for the ceremony to begin."

"Please excuse me," said Duncan. "I will see you again shortly."

Attendants had cleared away the casket, and a throne had been set up for the coronation. It might have seemed a little morbid to some, but Leliana knew coronations, especially the unexpected ones, were best gotten over with as fast as possible to avoid complications.

The Revered Mother traditionally conducted the ceremony, and administered the oaths to the new king. Leliana's mind was cast back to a day over twenty years ago, when Alistair had sat in the same spot and recited the same words. It had been a golden day, full of promise.

Everyone had been present, with the exception of Sten and Morrigan. Wynne with a delegation of mages, Shale standing solemnly in a corner, Zevran trying to keep a smirk off his face, and Oghren already half-drunk and anxious for the festivities to begin. Aedan had been there, squeezing her hand, with Baskerville at his heel. She had rested her head on his shoulder and whispered silly jokes to him throughout the entire ceremony, and they sneaked kisses when they thought no one was looking.

Time moved on, and had a habit of taking with it everything you held dear.

"Will you solemnly swear to rule the people of the kingdom of Ferelden, nobility and freemen alike, according to ancient tradition and custom?"

"I will."

"Will you rule with justice, mercy, and compassion while executing your powers in adherence to the law?"

"I will."

"Will you to your utmost power and ability uphold the holy Chantry and the word of the Maker and defend this land against all her enemies to your last breath?"

"I will."

"Then I declare you King Duncan of House Theirin, sovereign monarch of Ferelden. All ye who are gathered, acknowledge and behold your king."

The assembled ranks knelt as one, and Duncan stood up. He had been crowned, and Leliana found herself remembering an old Orlesian saying. Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.

"Rolann," said Leliana, once the coronation had been concluded. "I've decided to stay in Denerim for the forseeable future. Your sister needs my help, and so does Duncan. I'll be able to weigh in on more council meetings if I take up residence in the palace."

"Are you sure mother?" asked Rolann doubtfully.

"Yes my dear boy. You'll do fine without me, I know it. I'll be back when I can, at least once the initial crisis is over."

"What about security? Now Zevran is gone I don't trust anyone here."

"I'll see to it myself. Perhaps I can persuade Duncan to give Zev another chance."

"Alright mother. If you say so. Please take care."

"I will," said Leliana. She hugged her son goodbye. She hated having to leave him, but it was Aeryn that needed her more at the moment. Would that she could split herself in three, and watch over Aeryn in Denerim and Rolann in Highever, as well as Darien wherever he was at the moment. Every parent must have felt the same at one point or another, but that didn't stop her from feeling especially torn.

"I'll write every day," promised Rolann.

"Make sure you do. I love you Rolann."

"I love you too mother."

Rolann gathered his cloak around him and made his way out of the cathedral. No point in overstaying his welcome, there were a thousand things he needed to do back in Highever. He would make the journey back at first light the next day. Alone.


	5. Reconciliation

**Chapter Five – Reconciliation**

**Northern Ferelden**

The doe trotted into the clearing and sniffed around warily, ever on the alert for predators. Every muscle of its body was taut, ready to leap away at the slightest hint of danger. The forests of Ferelden were home to wolves, bears, and other menaces. The deer that survived weren't going to be easily caught by just any blundering hunter.

Which is why Darien Cousland had climbed a huge oak tree, and was sitting comfortably on a branch as wide as a bench. No matter how keen their senses were, deer tended not to look up. And off the ground, the wind would be less likely to carry his scent to them. Darien notched an arrow and drew the shaft against his cheek. One shot was all he needed.

A rustle from the bushes made the doe lift its head from the grass. A second later it had bounded away. A young dwarf emerged, brushing away the leaves that had fallen onto his chainmail. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around.

"Ser Darien? How goes the hunt?"

"Maker's beard Ayden, you scared it away!"

Darien flung his bow to the ground and leapt from the tree, tucking his legs and rolling across the grass as he hit the ground. He snatched up his bow and hurtled after the doe, drawing another arrow as he ran.

Branches whipped at his face as he crashed through the woods, and he had to jump over a treacherous tree root or two with seconds to spare. The doe raced along ahead of him, just out of range. Darien cursed as it slipped further and further away, he had been looking forward to a hot meal for the night.

Bright sunlight hit his face as the treeline suddenly gave out and Darien found himself in a beautiful, wide-open meadow. The doe had managed to run quite a long way, just a flash of light brown fur was visible at this distance.

Darien dug in his heels and came to a stop. Panting heavily, he narrowed his eyes and raised his bow. A second of quiet but intense concentration passed, and his arrow sped into the air with a sharp hiss. It arced upwards, going higher and higher, then finally falling to earth like a hawk out of the sky. The blur of movement was cut short, and Darien knew his arrow had found its mark. Delighted with his skill, he jogged over to pick up his prize.

It would be a few hours hard work to skin the doe and prepare the meat, but he was looking forward to it. This was the way life was meant to be lived. Out on the road, eating nothing except for what you hunted or found for yourself. Sleeping under the stars and waking up to the sound of birdsong, bathing in creeks and drinking from mountain streams, the road with all its endless possibilities lying in wait. It was everything he dreamed about as a child.

Darien hoisted the doe onto his shoulders and trekked back to the site where he and Ayden had made camp. The light would start to fade in another couple of hours, but it was a comfortable spot to rest for the night. The grass was springy and the sky was clear as far as the eye could see. There would be no need to set up their tents.

Ayden had kindled a small fire, which was very welcome in the chilly weather. A large grin spread across his face when he saw the doe draped across Darien's shoulders.

"Ah, wonderful. You managed to bring it down ser."

"Yes I did. After running like hell, I might add. How many times I must tell you not to interrupt me while I'm hunting?"

"I apologise ser, I won't do it again."

"That's what you said last time."

"But this time I mean it."

Darien laughed and went off to skin the deer. He liked bantering with Ayden. The young dwarf warrior was about a head shorter than him, though Darien wasn't a very tall man. Rolann and Aeryn had been the tall ones in the family. Ayden was clean-shaven and kept his reddish-brown hair cropped close, much like Darien himself did.

Named in honour of Teyrn Cousland by Oghren, Ayden had spent most of his life in Orzammar with his mother Felsi, rarely seeing his father who often had to spend long periods of time in Alistair's court. It was perhaps because of this that Ayden was a quiet, polite and reserved sort of person, who rarely drank, never spoke if he could help it and always referred to Darien as 'ser'.

But by the Maker, he could fight. Darien had seen for himself Ayden's skill with a warhammer. Bandits and the like tended to underestimate the unassuming dwarf lurking quietly in the background. It would inadvertently prove to be a very painful mistake, as Ayden could shatter bones with a single swing of his hammer. He had entered a number of proving tournaments back in Orzammar, and won more than his fair share.

Ayden was also a perfect companion on the road. He could carry a heavy pack and walk for endless wheels without ever complaining, and could cook a half decent meal. This suited Darien very much, who could talk enough for two men and while skilled at hunting, was not very good at the preparation part.

Darien had sought out Ayden about travelling together soon after he was knighted in Orzammar, during their fathers' Calling. The dwarf had been excited about the idea, as much excitement as he could express anyway. Ayden was to serve as his squire and eventually become a knight himself, although it was more of a partnership of equals than one of master and apprentice.

In the two years since Oghren and Aedan had disappeared into the Deep Roads, their sons had wandered around Ferelden and the Free Marches, collecting bounties, defending the helpless and generally leading lives of adventure. This was knighthood as Aedan had taught him, serving the people in need instead of lounging around on landed estates like some knights did. They had fallen into quite a number of sticky situations and earned more than a handful of scars, but each narrow escape only increased their love of the road.

Darien finished skinning the deer. He still could remember his mother and father showing him how to save every part of the animal for later use. The fat was needed for cooking, the meat could be dried, salted and preserved for later, and the brains were mashed and used to soften the hides into workable leather. A typical lord's son would learn how to bring down a deer with packs of hounds and men on horseback, but Leliana had insisted on teaching Darien how to do it with a single arrow, and Aedan taught him what to do with the carcass once it had been shot.

Ayden threw more sticks onto the fire and roasted a nice side of venison for the both of them. Leaning against a tree, sinking his teeth into the meat and feeling the hot juice run down his chin, Darien was reminded of the times his family had went camping in the gamewoods belonging to the Couslands. Aeryn and Rolann might have been at that moment eating off gold plates and drinking fine wine, but this was all that he needed for a good dinner.

"I'll take first watch, shall I ser?" asked Ayden, after the last bite of meat had been eaten and the fire had died down to flickering embers. The stars had come out, barely visible through the canopy of tree branches.

"Thanks Ayden. I'll just finish my letter before I turn in for the night."

"Aye."

Darien rummaged in his pack and brought out a quill pen, a little stone bottle of ink and a piece of parchment. He wrote his letter by the last light of the fire, the words coming quickly and easily to him as befitting a true bard.

_Dear Erin,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, my love. Not a day goes by where I don't miss the sound of your sweet voice or the touch of your gentle hands._

_Ayden and myself have returned to Ferelden, and it would not be over long until I can hold you in my arms again. Life on the road holds as much danger as it does reward, but no amount of plundered gold snatched from the purses of defeated bandits could ever compare to one of your kisses._

_I trust your Bannornfolk have not been giving you trouble, and things go on much the same as before. There is business to which I must attend, but rest assured that I will turn up on your doorstep sooner rather than later, whenever you least expect it. Give my best regards to your mother and sister._

_Sealed with a kiss,_

_Ser Darien Cousland_

Darien chuckled as he finished the last word. He'd deliberately made it as sappy as possible. He could predict Erin's reaction upon receiving the letter almost as if he was seeing it for himself. Her lips would tighten with each word she read, her face as blank as a piece of slate. Another person might mistake her countenance for anger, but Darien knew that she would be trying to hold back laughter. Eventually she would toss the letter in the air, throw up her arms and exclaim something along the lines of 'that insufferable man!'. Later though, she would pick it up again and carry it back to her bedchamber, where she would read it once more before carefully locking it away.

"A letter to Bann Erin ser?" asked Ayden, resting his hammer across his knees and polishing it with a piece of cloth.

"Yeah."

"Forgive me ser..."

"Speak your mind, Ayden."

"Very well. My mother did tell me once that human marriage customs were much like ours."

"Meaning?"

"Well, you're supposed to get married to a girl you like and not...stray."

"I'm not married!"

"Yes, but you and Bann Erin are very close. And there have been times when you were close to other women, if you take my meaning."

"Ayden, Ayden," sighed Darien, resting his head on his palms and gazing up into the night sky. "Those were harmless flings. A man like me can't be tied down. We have to have our freedom."

"But Bann Erin does like you very much ser."

"Oh aye, but what she doesn't know can't hurt her, you know?"

There was silence as the two of them formed a mental picture of Erin. Her mother and Leliana had been friends since before either she or Darien was born, and they had more or less grown up together. Small and petite with short blonde hair, she had a way of intimidating even the most battle-hardened knights and venerable old mages while looking like a comely village lass. Quick of wit and speech, she governed her Bannorn with a terrifying efficiency ever since her father had died and she took over at the age of fourteen. It was said criminals generally preferred three days in the stocks to one tongue-lashing from her.

"On the other hand, what she might eventually find out will most definitely hurt _you_, ser."

Darien raised an eyebrow. Ayden rarely cracked jokes, and almost never at his expense.

"Think you're right, mate. Best be on the straight and narrow whilst we're in Ferelden, eh?"

"I think that would be wise."

Darien tucked away his writing materials, he would pay someone to take the letter to Erin in the next village they stopped by. He flopped on the grass and threw a blanket over himself.

"Night Ayden."

"Goodnight ser."

**Shift**

Something tickled Darien's nose. Without opening his eyes, he swatted at it sleepily.

"Alright Ayden, I'm up, I'm up," he mumbled. Then something clamped his mouth shut and his eyes shot open in terror.

"Mmmmf? Mmrrrgh? Arrrmggm!"

"Say another word and I slit your throat," whispered a silky voice, low and menacing. Darien stopped struggling and lay very still, as the cold steel of a dagger blade was laid to rest on his throat.

"Now I'm going to let you speak one word. You're only allowed to say either 'yes' or 'no'. Say anything else and I'll hurt you. If you understand, keep quiet."

It took five seconds of silence before the mysterious voice spoke again.

"Are you or are you not Ser Darien Cousland?"

"Yes?"

"Right, just checking."

The blade was removed and a match flared in the darkness, illuminating a long, lean, tattooed face that Darien knew very well.

"Uncle Zev?"

"Hello Dare," said Zevran nonchalantly, puffing on his cigar.

"You almost killed me!"

"Hardly. If I want someone killed, they wouldn't even know about it."

"What did you do that for? Where's Ayden?"

"The dwarf? He's over there."

Ayden had been bound and gagged and tied to a tree. Darien rushed over and cut him loose.

"I'm sorry ser," were the first words out of his mouth. "He snuck up on me and I never heard a thing."

"Zevran, do you know who he is?"

"Enlighten me."

"This is Ayden Kondrat. He's Oghren's son!"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "The last time I saw you, you were a mewling little thing screaming for your mother. The years have been kind."

"To you as well, Uncle Zev," said Darien. The elf looked the same as ever, but his gear was strange to Darien's eyes. He was wearing old drakeskin leather armour and had a vast array of knives strapped about his person, as well as a small crossbow. He was also wearing a dark green hooded travelling cloak and supple Antivan leather boots. Darien could only ever recall seeing Zevran in the expensive clothes of a court noble, not suited up for battle.

"Well obviously."

"Can I ask what you're doing here?"

"To put it simply, I've been fired from my position as Royal Spymaster by your charming brother-in-law."

"Duncan gave you the sack? Why the hell would he do that?"

"The little matter of failing to prevent the assassination of the queen would qualify, no?"

Darien stared at Zevran, his mouth hanging open.

"Judging by your stunned silence it appears you have not heard the news."

"I...Maker, no! No, I haven't! I've only just gotten back!"

"It has been a couple of weeks since I discovered Ferelden's queen lying in bed with her throat cut."

"What _is _it with assassins and cutting throats? Is it something they teach you in assassin school?"

"Now that you mention it, one of the first things I was taught was to -"

"Forget it Zev, I don't really want to know. I bet Duncan wanted to chop your head off."

"He did, actually. But your sister stepped in and saved me. For which I am profoundly grateful. Having been released from my duties, I am free to fulfill the promise I made to your father in a more...personal manner."

"What promise?"

"The Teyrn made me promise to keep his children safe to the best of my ability. I have broken many, many oaths over the years. This one I never will."

Darien's breath hitched in his throat and he had to pause for a moment before replying. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"It's simple, really. I have to find the assassin, for he still poses a threat to your sister. You are going to help me, and therefore I can keep an eye on you as well."

"What about Rolann?"

"Rolann is a powerful mage and the new Teyrn. He can take care of himself."

"And you're saying I can't?"

"Please Darien, I have little time for misplaced indignation. Rolann stays in a big castle with lots of guards. You on the other hand, move around a lot. I had a devil of a time tracking you down. At any moment you could be eaten by a dragon."

"...I haven't run into any dragons."

"Yet."

"If we can avoid getting eaten by dragons, what's our next move?"

"We have to track down a serving maid who disappeared from the palace immediately after the assassination was discovered. That's my first lead."

"Do you have other leads? Clues, maybe? Some idea of where to go?"

"No."

"This is going to end in tears, isn't it?"

"Probably. For you."

Ayden meanwhile had been staring at Zevran with a look of rapt attention on his face. When Darien fell into silence, the dwarf spoke up, a little hesitantly.

"You...you knew my father?"

"Indeed I did," said Zevran, looking surprised.

"Could you tell me more about him?"

**The Bedchamber of the Teyrn**

**Castle Cousland**

Rolann rarely went to bed early. He would sit up and pore over ancient texts and the latest reports from the various nobles within Highever's sphere of influence, long into the night with the candles guttering and burning low. He would continue writing his letters and orders or once in a great while, little thought experiments on the nature of magic. His role as Teyrn left him little time to study magic as he once used to, and he found himself missing it.

For sentimental reasons he had chosen to remain in the bedchamber he slept in as a child, and not move into the one his father had shared with his mother. He preferred it that way, with the desk he'd used as a boy by the window, overlooking the castle courtyard and letting in the stiff Highever breeze. Rolann didn't seem to feel the cold like other people did, and was perfectly happy about working with his window open even in wintry weather.

He finished an important letter to the head of the Grey Warden order, a knight named Ser Wilder. The man had been bugging him to join the Grey Wardens again, and he had to dash off his customary polite yet firm denial. If only Wilder would take the hint. Rolann was amazed at the number of times he made reference to 'living up to your father's legacy.' If Wilder really knew Aedan's opinion of him and the Wardens, he might not have been so quick to say that.

Idly Rolann speculated on Wilder's reaction if he revealed the real reason why he couldn't ever join the Wardens.

'I'm sorry ser, but I can't drink archdemon blood because I have in me the spirit and essence of an Elder God, and who knows what eldritch abominations my Joining Ritual might release into the world.'

He'd have given up half his lands just to see the look on Wilder's face.

Thinking about the Wardens made him think once again on the revelation that his father had given him. Rolann had been researching archdemons ever since his Harrowing ritual, but after Aedan revealed the truth about his conception he'd been trying to find out all he could about the Old Gods of the Tevinter Imperium. There was little he could find, and most of what he did turn up was flat-out lies, but here and there a kernel of truth lay hidden like a precious stone in a heap of rubbish.

The best theory he could come up with was that the spirit of the archdemon Urthemiel was fuelling his tremendous magical powers. Most people knew that Rolann had mastered the four schools of magic at a ridiculously young age, but they usually attributed it to his innate intelligence. Rolann also found that he could cast spells for a much longer period of time than his fellow mages, drawing from an apparently inexhaustible supply of mana. Even at a young age he hid this ability from his friends and tutors, as it too closely resembled blood magic. If anyone found out it would have resulted in an unpleasant inquisition.

Other than that, was was little else he could find out. But now that Leliana was in Denerim instead of Highever he would have a little more leeway to continue his research. She never said a word, but Rolann knew that his mother was less than enthused about him delving into his origins.

He rolled up the letter to Ser Wilder, and started a new one, addressed to his mother in the capital.

_Mother,_

_Thank you for your last letter. I hope things are going well for you and Aeryn._

_Little has changed since you were last in Highever. There's been the usual territorial disputes and supplications and petty squabbling, but nothing I can't handle. I used to think father's job was about making the big decisions, but now I realise it's more like keeping order in a rowdy classroom._

_Incidentally, thank you for your input on the Kessell case. Letting the little girl live with her grandparents as Bann Titus's personal guests while her parents work off the debt worked out for the best all round._

_I still haven't heard from Darien, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. He'll eventually remember about us and send a letter when he's finished with whatever tomfoolery he's up to at the moment._

_Also could I trouble you to have a quiet word with the Warden Commander? Wilder keeps pestering me to join the Wardens and I'm running out of ways to politely say no._

_All my love to you and Aeryn,_

_Rolann_

Rolann didn't mark the time when he crossed over from the waking world and fell asleep. He just suddenly found himself walking alone in a dark land, surrounded on all sides by strange, shadowy figures. He tried calling out to them, but none responded.

He arrived at a battlefield, the scene of a climatic battle. He recognised men and elves, dwarves and mages fighting desperately against what he recognised were darkspawn. Rolann had never seen one in the flesh, but he'd read about them. The noise one might expect from such a battle seemed faint and faraway, the Fereldens (as he assumed) giving up more and more ground as the darkspawn horde advanced. They battled hard, making the spawn pay for every inch they gained, but they were too few and all seemed lost.

A knight in silver armour appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a full face helm that obscured his features, and wielded a longsword and shield. With a cry he rallied the warriors and plunged into the mass of darkspawn, cutting down great swathes of them with every stroke of his blade. It looked as though they would prevail, thanks to his help.

A shadow fell across the field, making Rolann look up. An immense dragon, as large as the tallest tower in Castle Cousland beat its mighty wings as it swooped across the sky. It dived towards the silver knight, clearly marking him for death. The knight stood his ground and raised his sword in a gesture of defiance.

Before they clashed however, another beast appeared, this time a raven even larger than the dragon. It spread its wings and they filled up the entirety of the sky, blotting out the stars completely. The raven let out an ear-piercing shriek, and Rolann was jolted awake.

He had fallen asleep at his desk. The wind had blown out his candles, and the room was shrouded in darkness. His face was stuck to the pages of an open book, and he peeled himself away, blinking sleepily.

Rolann got up from his chair, turned around and found himself face to face with a tall woman with dark eyes, hooded and cloaked.

His reaction was instantaneous. Rolann sprang backwards and raised his arms, hurriedly conjuring a spell of shielding. Whatever it was, whatever demon had bypassed his defences and broke into his home, it was likely lethally dangerous. Rolann hadn't survived years in the treacherous political climate of the Circle Tower for all those years without picking up some survival instincts.

"Get back demon!" he warned, fire burning from the tips of his fingers. "I am not defenceless!"

The woman didn't attack him, or move towards him. She removed her hood and shook back her hair. She looked regal, and carried herself with the manner and bearing that he'd only ever seen in Queen Anora before. But her eyes were wide, almost fearful, and her lips were set in a tight, firm line. He looked into those eyes and something stirred deep within him, waking the most distant and haziest of memories from his earliest childhood recollections.

"Mordred...my Mordred," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Rolann's blood froze in his veins. Of all the people that walked the world, only one possessed the knowledge to refer to him by that name.

"_Morrigan?_"

**Shift**

She started to move towards him, but Rolann instinctively backed away, still maintaining his arcane shield. Morrigan bit her lip and stopped in her tracks. Her eyes were gleaming with what looked suspiciously like tears.

She didn't speak, but seemed content to just look at him, taking in every aspect of his appearance. Rolann did the same. She was wearing a simple black robe underneath her cloak. The longer he looked, the more familiar she seemed to him. Her hair was as dark as his, but streaked here and there with grey. She was as tall and as thin as he was, her face as angular and pale as his own.

"You look so much like him," she said finally, after a long period of silence.

"Like who?" asked Rolann without thinking.

"The Grey Warden. Cousland."

There was just a hint of anger as she said his father's name. It suggested a decades long enmity that would never truly heal.

Rolann didn't know what to think. His mind was a whirl, thoughts crashing and colliding into each other until he was at a loss of words, something that very rarely happened to him. It had been two years since his father had revealed the truth, and he had just about accepted it and tried to move on with his life. Now in an instant all those doubts and fears and questions came flooding back.

She was standing right in front of him. She was almost close enough to touch. The witch-woman of legend. His mother...

But all mages learned caution and guile to temper their knowledge. In magic nothing was as it seemed at first glance. Anything new could be a trick to trap the unwary. One false move and his soul was forfeit, or worse.

"How do I know you are who you say you are?

Morrigan looked for an instant as though she had been slapped. She drew back a little, her face becoming as blank as stone.

"If you think me a demon or some kind of abomination, then strike me down here and now. I will not stop you."

There was a moment, charged with tension. Rolann could sense the magic around her being drained away, until she was no longer glowing and crackling with raw arcane power but as dull and listless as any non-mage. It was like watching a star burn itself out, leaving a cold empty shell. She was leaving herself open, unguarded. It would have been simplicity itself to kill her with a single gesture of his fingers.

Slowly, Rolann lowered his arms. The shield he had thrown up around himself winked out and disappeared. He let go of all he was taught. Throwing caution to the wind, he took a leap of faith.

Rolann held out his hand. After what seemed like an eternity, she took it in hers.

"Mordred. My son," was all she could say. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"Morrigan, I..." began Rolann, before trailing off. What could he say to her, the mother he had not seen in a lifetime? What could he ask of the woman responsible for many a dark tale and whispered legend?

"I know you have a lot to ask. I know you have questions for me, some of which would take an age to answer. But please, just let me look at you. Just let me hold you, at least for this moment."

And she did.

**Shift**

Morrigan had composed herself, and was sitting on the edge of Rolann's bed. Rolann pulled up his chair and sat down opposite her. There were a million question he wanted to ask. He spoke the first one that came into his mind.

"Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you," she said quietly. "You are my son, Mordred. I haven't seen or held you since the Warden and his...wife stole you away from me. I have been waiting without pause for this day."

Then she looked puzzled as a thought struck her.

"You do not seem surprised. You know my name, you know who I am. You know the name I gave you. You do not dispute that I am your real mother," said Morrigan, her voice wavering on the last word.

"Yes. My father told me everything."

"Did he tell you the truth?" she cut in. "Did he tell you how he stole you away from me? How he fought me and beat me to within an inch of my life before taking you from me?"

"He did," said Rolann. "He was...his guilt was terrible to see. I have never before seen its like, not from him."

"Truth," said Morrigan, sounding amazed. "Truth from the Warden. Unbelievable."

"He kept the secret for a long time. But he told the truth, in the end."

"Tis more than I expected of him," she said. "I was so sure he would tell you that I gave you up. That I abandoned you somehow, or left you to die until he took you in. It has been my greatest fear, all these years I've been apart from you, Mordred. That you would...that you would think I did not want you."

She wiped her eyes. "I suppose I should thank him for that one small mercy."

Rolann felt tears welling up in his own eyes and he blinked them back. "He mentioned something else. Something about an Elder God, and the archdemon that he slew."

He drew a breath, deep and ragged.

"Is it true? Do I have the spirit of an Elder God within me? Am I just a pawn in your plan?"

He watched her carefully for her reaction. The question that had burned in his brain ever since he'd known the truth.

"Mordred, I wanted so much for you. I had such high hopes for you, born with the power of an Elder God. I saw a chance for the blinkered and fettered mages of this cruel land to taste true freedom for the first time in untold ages. You were to be their leader, the symbol of hope for a new beginning. To break the stranglehold of the Chantry and smash the bonds of the Circle Tower, that was my fondest wish."

Morrigan paused for a moment to arrange her thoughts before continuing.

"I tried to remain dispassionate. Perhaps either the Warden or the Bard might have mentioned my views on emotion and attachment. You were to be my weapon against the Chantry and the Circle, and little else.

But watching you grow and play and...and laugh, it changed something within me. Truly, it did. 'Twas something I would not have thought possible.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that you dashed all of my lofty plans to pieces upon your arrival into this world. I wanted so much to raise you as a mother should, to teach you the things I know, to show you the secrets of the world. That is the truth, Mordred. For good or ill."

Rolann heard her words. He noticed she was waiting for a reply.

"I believe you."

"Thank you," she said simply, and the joy on her face was a sight to behold.

"So what happens now?" Rolann asked.

"That is entirely up to you. I made contact because I know that the Bard is presently not within the city. There could be no one to interrupt our meeting."

"The Bard? You mean mother?" asked Rolann, again without thinking. Morrigan suddenly became very still, and she looked away from him, the first time she had done so tonight.

Rolann started to apologise, then thought about it. He had no reason to apologise. Leliana had been his mother in all but birth since he was a year old. He was certain she genuinely loved him as well, and treated him exactly the same as she did her other trueborn children.

It was all too much. He needed time to think.

"As I said, what happens is entirely up to you," said Morrigan at last. "There are things I have to tell you. There is much we can discuss. But we have to keep it secret, at least for now. No one can know that I am back in Ferelden. If you cannot agree to this, if it is your wish Mordred, I shall disappear and you will never see me again in this life. And no one need ever know the name I gave you."

"No, that's not what I want," said Rolann. "I just...need some time to mull things over. But I don't want you to vanish again from my life, now that I've found you again."

"Then we shall meet again," said Morrigan, standing up. Rolann did the same.

"Where can I find you?"

"At present I have taken up residence in the forests near the city. Occasionally, I wander its streets and observe its people. But I will find you again ere too long, my son. You will know when tis time once more for us to speak."

"How?"

Morrigan smiled. "By the thread that binds us, Mordred. By magic."

She took a step closer to Rolann. This time he did not back away.

"Before I leave, may I ask something of you? I swear I will never ask you for something beyond your power to grant."

"What is it?"

"Bid me farewell, like a son would for his mother."

Rolann took all of a second to decide. He held out his arms, and embraced Morrigan. She put her own arms around him and held him close. He could feel her body trembling at his touch.

"I love you my son," she whispered. "Till next time we meet."

She went over to the window, and before his eyes Morrigan transformed into a raven. She stretched her wings and took flight, soaring towards the rising sun.


	6. The Qunari Set Sail

**Chapter Six – The Qunari Set Sail**

**Dragon Age 9:57**

**Estwatch**

The Arishok of the Qunari leapt from the gunwale of his flagship and took his first step upon the soil of Estwatch. A tiny island in the Amaranthine ocean, far east of Thedas, Estwatch had a number of distinct strategic advantages.

First, as a neutral port of the loose coalition of the city states known as the Free Marches, it had no large standing army to pose a major challenge. Estwatch had survived thus far by being too small, too useful, and too out of the way for a conqueror to take over. Ships bound for Rivain from the Free Marches generally docked at Estwatch for a day or two, and the island's small fishing community profited from selling the sailors all the cheap ale they could brew.

Secondly, although Estwatch was considered insignificant by the rest of Thedas, no other kingdom had the great war fleets of the Qunari. From their base in Kont-arr in northern Rivain the Qunari had sailed unopposed all the way down to Estwatch in record time. The deep waters of the port meant that a fleet could dock there for months at a time, readying for an eventual second strike.

And that strike would come. Estwatch was, geographically speaking, within shouting distance of Ferelden. By taking Estwatch the Qunari had already ventured further south than they had done in two hundred years. Estwatch was a stepping stone on the path to glory as yet unrealised.

The Qunari fleet had not been content to blockade the island and starve out its defenders, cowering behind their walls as they waited for an answer to their call of help that never came. The Governor of the island, a man named Thatcher, had dashed off messages to every lord, prince and king he knew, all in vain.

The Arishok had given the order for bombardment, and the mighty cannons of the Qunari warships pounded the island's defences without mercy. Let the corrupt Theodosians have their twisted magic. The Qunari would never go to war using a weapon they did not understand fully. Gunpowder was their edge in battle and they guarded its secrets fiercely.

It took less than a day before the white flag of surrender was raised from the highest building on Estwatch. The Arishok was notified and he had decided to accept the Governor's surrender in person.

A pair of Qunari warriors dragged their captive roughly by the arms before the Arishok, knocking him down and sending him sprawling on the ground. His fine furs were splattered with mud, and a sharp rock tore a long gash down one leg. The warriors could not hide their disdain for a leader who surrendered to save his own skin rather than fight to the death.

The Arishok's boots crunched on gravel as he made his way up the path and to the cringing, defeated Governor. The warriors saluted respectfully, and took up position on either side of their leader.

"I am the Arishok of the Qunari," he said, his voice a low yet powerful rumble. "I will hear your surrender."

"My name is Governor Thatcher, of the free city of Estwatch," he began. "Our people have no defense against a Qunari invasion force. We are humble fisherman and sailors, not warriors. We surrender unconditionally, and beg that our lives will be spared."

"Your life is not for yours to beg," remarked the Arishok. "A surrendered man forfeits his life to his conqueror. Yet I will make the same offer to you as all Qunari conquerors have done. Convert to the Qun, embrace the true way of life, and your people will live to see the next sunrise."

The Governor gulped nervously. "But the Chantry...the Reverend Mother would never..."

"It is no concern of mine. The decision lies with every one of your people."

The Arishok turned to one of his warriors, speaking in the common tongue so that the Governor could understand his words. "Bring their answer to me in two hours. All who convert will be spared and allowed to continue living on the island. The rest will be slain."

"I will, Arishok."

"Also, execute this man and their woman priest immediately," he continued, ignoring the sharp gasp of fear from the Governor. "I cannot imagine of what use they could be to the Qunari."

"At once, Arishok," said the warrior. He did not smile, but his eyes glowed with pleasure.

**Shift**

Although his officers had expected him to set up his headquarters in the Governor's mansion, the Arishok had elected to remain on board his flagship, at least for the time being. He always felt slightly better on a ship, rocking gently on the waves of the Amaranthine.

He sat at his desk, poring over reports. The stateroom of a Qunari ship was unlike anything a human would have expected. It was bare and as spartan as a prison cell, with little in the way of comfort. It focused the mind, and also had the practical effect of having less weight for the ship to carry. In battle, a Qunari ship could be confident of outmaneuvering a human one.

A knock at the door made him look up.

"Enter."

The warrior who had brought the governor before him stepped inside and saluted. He cradled his helmet under one arm and the Arishok couldn't help noticing that two horns curled from both sides of his forehead, swept backwards. It seemed that more and more young Qunari these days were horned. Unhorned Qunari, such as the Arishok himself, were seen as better suited to serve as diplomats and envoys, as they looked more like humans and caused less alarm among them. The Arishok did not belive in superstition and portents, but privately he wondered if the Ashkaari, the scholars who watched the skies, were accurate in their mutterings. The presence of more horned Qunari suggested that the time for war had come at long last.

"Report."

"Arishok, all but three of the island's community agreed to convert to the Qun."

"That is welcome news. Who were the three who did not?"

"A religious family, man woman and child. We will put them to the sword, as instructed."

The Arishok frowned. "Even the child?"

The young warrior looked nervous. "Yes, Arishok. Those were your orders."

"It is ill to slaughter children," said the Arishok. "Not when they could be re-educated in the ways of the Qun.

"Yes Arishok."

"Following orders is good discipline, particularly in battle. But I would like my warriors to display a little initiative out of it. Do I make myself clear, Karashok?"

"Yes sir," said the warrior, accepting the rebuke stoically. It was enough to follow and serve under the command of a legend like the old Arishok. Whatever criticism he endured was part of his training, training that thousands of other Karashoks (or infantry privates), would never get to experience.

"Good. Has the execution taken place yet?"

"No, Arishok."

"Very well, I will see to it myself."

The Arishok rose from his desk and strode briskly out of the cabin, with the Karashok trailing in his wake. In a few minutes he was once again on Estwatch, noting with satisfaction the speed and efficiency with which his Qunari warriors were going about their duties. Many had organised chain labour gangs of the island's populace, and they were busily repairing the damage their cannons had caused. Every Qunari saluted the Arishok respectfully as he passed.

He reached the centre of the town square, where the governor, the chantry's Reverend Mother, and the family the Karashok had mentioned under guard. Another Qunari had unsheathed his weapon, ready to perform the deed.

"Hold," intoned the Arishok. He accepted the warrior's salute, and cast an eye over the apparent faithful. The governor had long since fainted from shock, his sightless eyes rolling upwards to the sky. The Mother was glaring at him with a baleful eye. But the family looked almost calm. They had accepted their fate with quiet dignity, which was something the Arishok found worthy, if stupid.

"Why do you choose death?" he asked of them.

"Death is better than damnation, you beast," spat the Mother. "May the Maker strike you down where you stand."

The Arishok deliberately paused for a long moment. Absolutely nothing happened.

His point made, he turned to the child.

"What is your name?"

The small boy refused to answer. He stared at the Arishok with huge, tear-filled eyes.

"Do you want to die?"

"No," stuttered the boy, after a while. "No, I don't."

His father interrupted before his son could say another word. "We would rather die than to turned from the Maker's path."

"It is cruelty itself to make children suffer for your own foolish convictions," remarked the Arishok. He nodded at a guard. "Release the child and hand him over to the Tamassrans." They were the priests and teachers who re-educated prisoners in the way of the Qun.

"No!" screamed the father, but it was too late. His son was removed from his side, and the worst of it was that he did not go kicking or screaming.

"Remember this," said the Arishok. "Your son has been set on a brighter path. He will be assimilated into the Qun and become one of us."

"It's a fate worse than death," growled the father.

"Shut up, Ben," said his wife wearily. She had not spoken until then. "As long as he's alive, I don't really care. I don't want him to die."

"Your wife has more sense than you, Estwatcher," remarked the Arishok. "_Ashkost say hissra."_

Unsheathing his steel longsword, the Arishok killed the four of them quickly, with little fuss. He cleaned the blade and put it back in its scabbard.

"Karashok!" he called. The young warrior ran up to him at once."

"That has been taken care of. What other news do you have for me?"

The Karashok reeled off all the other messages he had, chiefly concerning the messages that the governor had sent during the siege. Apparently he had managed to send off ravens and pigeons to almost all of the Free Marcher cities, none of whom had answered his plea for help.

The Arishok only interrupted once. "Did he send a message to Ferelden?"

"Yes sir. He did."

The Arishok stared thoughtfully off into space for a little while. "Very well. Continue."

When the Karashok had finished, he was ordered to summon all the senior officers to the stateroom. The Arishok intended to call a council of war.

**Shift**

The Kithshok, commanders of the small army the Arishok had brought with him, assembled in their general's cabin. Each one had been hand picked by the Arishok to lead the first wave of his campaign instead of being left behind in Par Vollen on guard duty, and they were eager to prove their abilities.

"The first step of our campaign has succeeded," he began. "Estwatch has fallen and it will be a vital staging port. We shall await the rest of the fleet from Kont-arr and Par Vollen before making our next move."

"Where do you intend to strike, sir?" asked one of the Kithshok. "Hercinia? Oswick? Markham?" All were Free Marcher cities within a few days sail of Estwatch.

"None of them," replied the Arishok. "When we are ready, we shall strike immediately at Ferelden. Our spies report that Brandel's Reach and Alamar are lightly defended. By taking them we will hold a knife to the throat of the Ferelden King."

The Kithshok had a number of questions following that relevation. The Qunari military valued free and open discourse. Arishok's did not make mysterious orders from a high and lofty position like so many human commanders in human armies did. By explaining his reasoning, his wisdom was shared by all and strengthened the officer corps as a whole.

"Why don't we attack the Free Marches? Their armies are weak and ill-discipline, and they have little magic amongst them. We could take city after city with none capable of standing before us."

The Arishok had anticipated this question. "Kithshok, do you know why is it that the first Qunari invasion of Thedas failed?"

"They had their accursed mages, and far greater numbers that overwhelmed our forces -"

"That is but a children's lesson," cut in the Arishok calmly. "The true reason was because our invasion, as broad and as terrifying as it was, had the effect of uniting the rest of Thedas against us."

The Kithshok exchanged glances. As was usual with the Arishok, he managed to make a piece of wisdom so obviously logical once he had uttered it, that it was a wonder no one had thought of it before.

"By invading Northern Thedas and taking cities and forts we could barely afford to garrison and hold, the Qunari overstretched themselves. The Chantry used their influence to convince all the various kings and princes that this was an invasion that threatened all of Thedas, and all Thedas took up arms to repel the 'barbarian invaders'."

"So it shall be if we attack the Free Marches," continued the Arishok. "We might take one city unopposed. Two at a push. But then what next? Once we continue onwards, the sleeping kingdoms will arise to protect their borders. If we plunge into the quagmire that is the Free Marches, we shall have all of Antiva, Rivain and the Tevinter Imperium between us and reinforcements and supplies.

If we attack Ferelden, and only Ferelden mark you, then the other kingdoms of Thedas will be slow to raise their armies. An Orlesian will take up arms if he thinks the Qunari are coming to burn his fields and murder his children. He will be loath to do so to save a bunch of Fereldens in a distant land. The Free Marches are a prize for another day. Perhaps for another Arishok. My eye remains, as it always has, fixed on Ferelden."

"But why Ferelden, Arishok?" asked another Kithshok. "Why don't we finish off the Tevinter Imperium? They are a decaying, rotting shell of their former glory. We should sweep them from their lands and restore them to the Qun."

"The Tevinter Imperium has been a rotting shell for a thousand years," replied the Arishok. "They are old, yes. They are corrupt. They are steeped in unbelievable savagery. Yet they have ancient magic and forbidden secrets that they will not hesitate to use once we begin a dedicated attack. I know Tevinters. I have fought them countless times. A Tevinter would sooner see the entire world destroyed if it meant that his enemy would die as well. I will not risk an infestation of abominations and demons because of the cowardice of a few stinking mages. Unlike the Free Marches I do intend to invade the Imperium...but not without the proper preparation."

There was a silence as the Kithshok absorbed his words. They thought they could understand the Arishok's master plan at last.

"Is that why we attack Ferelden, sir?" asked another Kithshok. "Their Circle might help us defeat the Tevinter?"

"That is part of the reason, yes," said the Arishok. "The Circle Tower of Ferelden is the heart of Thedas magic. It is the most organised and has the highest complement of mages schooled in battle magic. We cannot risk being attacked by Ferelden mages while engaged in another campaign elsewhere."

The Kithshoks nodded in agreement. The Arishok's plan made sense. Better to take out the enemy's greatest weapon swiftly and head on, then move to other targets.

One of the youngest officers there cleared his throat. He was not a Kithshok, yet he had been invited along the campaign by proving himself in battle against pirates. With a handful of warriors, he had plundered three ships that had been plaguing the Qunari trade routes. He had been raised from Karashok to the rank of a Sten.

"Arishok, you mentioned that the Circle Tower was part of the reason," he said. "I would like to know the full reason."

The other Kithshoks looked askance at the warrior who had interrupted the Arishok. He was a mere Sten, as yet unscarred and had never seen real war.

But the Arishok did not seem to share their annoyance. On the contrary, he was looking at the Sten with something like admiration.

"You shall have it. My fellow warriors, you know that in my youth I was sent by the Arishok before me to journey to the land of Ferelden to answer a question."

The Kithshoks nodded. Everyone in Par Vollen down to the smallest child knew the tale of what he had done nearly three decades ago.

"The question was, 'what is the Blight?' And in my travels, I found the answer. I found the answer by accompanying the greatest warrior I have ever seen, human or Qunari. The Atashi-katar, slayer of the archdemon. My kadan.

It was this man who defeated a Blight that took several kingdoms thousands of men and mages to defeat the last time around. One man killed the Blight before it had even begun. And he was my friend."

A ghost of a smile twitched the Arishok's lips. "I know what they say about me in Par Vollen. The Antaam tell me the people think I am a coward. That I am too old, too slow, too cautious. That you hated my decision to stop the war against the Imperium. That all of you were surprised when I finally gave the order to sail for Ferelden."

The Kithshok looked embarassed. None of them dared to look the Arishok directly in the eye. None of them but the Sten.

"That man saved my life many times over. He saved the world. He is, cruelly, a victim of his own success. The very briefness of the Blight has consigned it to a mere footnote in the history books. Few will remember the name Aedan of Highever today.

But I did. And I honoured it. I made a vow not to look for him on the battlefield. When I became Arishok keeping my vow and invading Ferelden would have made it impossible. I know the man. He would have been the first to lead the charge, swinging that starmetal sword of his, and damn the consequences.

He deserved a few years of happiness, far less than he would have enjoyed had it not been for the taint of Warden corruption. Now he has gone to seek his death in the Deep Roads, and our armies and fleets have been prepared enough for an invasion."

The Arishok turned to look directly at the Sten. "Here is your full answer. The Teyrn of Highever showed me that Fereldens, more than any other human race, are the best warriors in the world. The Orlesians have their formidable chevaliers. The Antivans are unmatched in assassination. The Imperium has their vaunted magic. But the Fereldens fight with equal measure savagery and tenacity. They are by and large an unskilled, unschooled and uncultured people – but they know war. If we take Ferelden, then there will be none left to stand in our way."

"I am satisfied, my Arishok."

The Arishok kept his gaze on him for a while longer.

"You are a Sten, yes?"

"That is correct."

"I was a Sten once," he mused. "You may feel that you are surrounded by warriors who have seen and done more than you have, but I know just how far a Sten can rise."


	7. Upheaval

**Chapter Seven - Upheaval**

**Castle Cousland**

**Many years ago**

The storm raged against the very foundations of Castle Cousland, with the wind and rain lashing at every stone of every tower. Thunder echoed deafeningly every few minutes or so, and even in the heart of the Teyrn's bedchamber Leliana knew she would get no sleep.

She poked Aedan in the arm. He just grunted and rolled away from her, covering his face with a pillow.

"Aedan."

"I'm not answering you, woman," came the muffled reply.

"Aedan, I know you can't sleep either."

"You're wrong. I am asleep."

"So who's speaking then?"

"...this is the voice of a demon. I've possessed your husband. Fear me."

Leliana poked him again, a little harder this time.

"Don't joke about things like that!"

"I'm not joking. I've really been possessed. In a second I'll grow an extra head and spit blood at you."

A second passed.

"Aaaaany minute now..."

Leliana grasped the pillow and tugged it away. Aedan kept his eyes resolutely shut.

"Leave me be Leli, I'm tired."

"Aedan you sound like a petulant child."

"I've had a long day."

"You spent the entire day doing nothing but eat and play with Baskerville and little Rolann." She poked his belly. "I think you're getting flabby, _monsieur._"

"Spare me your verbal barbs, miss bard."

Leliana bent down and gently brushed his forehead with her lips. Her hair fell like a red curtain around Aedan's face, and he opened his eyes and smiled that irascible half-smirk that Leliana found infuriatingly adorable.

"Hi."

"Hey you."

They kissed, slowly, unhurriedly. Taking their time and getting it right. It was a good long while before they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Mommy?" came a voice from outside. A child's voice.

Aedan raised an eyebrow. "It seems your son has need of you."

Leliana laughed. "You and Rolann are exactly alike. Any time there's trouble both of you come running to me."

Aedan chuckled, but his mood grew pensive. "Leli...do you honestly think of Rolann as your son?" he said, as Leliana got up and put on a nightrobe. She went back to Aedan's side and kissed his cheek.

"Yes. Yes, I do. I may not have given birth to him, but I love him just the same."

"I was wrong to do what I did," sighed Aedan. He would not look at his wife.

"Yes, you were. But it was a mistake borne out of love. And the boy should not have to suffer for your sins, Aedan. I have come to love him just as much as you."

Aedan's expression smoothed itself over. Once again he was at peace. Leliana opened the chamber door and gathered up Rolann in her arms. The boy looked solemn, as he often did, his dark eyes peering at her under a curtain of dark hair.

"What brings you to us, sweetheart?"

"It's the storm," said Rolann, trembling. "I know I shouldn't be afraid, but I thought I heard something else. It sounded like a bird."

"What kind of bird?"

"I think I saw it, in my dreams. Big and black."

Aedan and Leliana exchanged an uneasy glance. "A raven?" he asked, but Leliana silenced him with a look.

"Hush now, Rolann. Everything's all right."

Rolann hopped up onto their bed and snuggled down under the covers between his parents. Soon he had drifted off to sleep, his snoring soft and regular.

Leliana yawned. The storm had not abated, but having Rolann beside her made her feel sleepy too. Without looking she reached for Aedan's hand and grasped it.

"Good night darling," she whispered.

"Good night love. Go to sleep now," said Aedan. It had always been his way, whether they were sleeping in a flimsy tent on a patch of frozen ground in the middle of uncharted wilds, or safe at home in Castle Cousland. He always let Leliana sleep first, while he remained awake a little while longer, ears and eyes alert for the slightest hint of any danger.

Leliana closed her eyes, knowing she was safe, knowing she would wake up with the sunlight on her face and see her husband and son beside her.

**The Royal Palace**

**Denerim**

Leliana opened her eyes. She turned to her side, expecting for half a moment to see Aedan's lined and weatherbeaten face looking back at her, before remembering he was dead.

The strong sunlight streaming in from her window startled her. She had meant to rise early, perhaps breakfast with Aeryn. Judging by the light it was well past dawn.

She called for her serving girl, who arrived with a jug of water and fresh clothes. Leliana washed and put them on, a long green gown with long sleeves. The girl brushed her hair and nattered on about everything and nothing. Leliana listened politely. She had come from Highever with her, and the sights of the capital city were still fresh to her. She talked about a play she was going to see when the next holy day came around, all about the werewolves of the Brecilian forest.

_I could tell you what happened there true, moreso than any acting troop, _thought Leliana. When they were done she thanked the girl and left her chambers, intending to find her daughter.

At Highever she had known all of her servants by name, a habit of Aedan's that had rubbed off on her. As she moved through the long corridors and spacious halls most people took the time to nod their head and offer her a greeting, but she knew less than half of them. The lady mother of Highever's Teyrn was much respected in Denerim, especially one who had fought during the Blight. Still, she couldn't help feeling a little wary. The capital was an infamous nest of vipers, and ever since her daughter had been kidnapped here some years ago she had never liked it.

Still, her old fears and troubles were nothing compared to Aeryn and the realm. She was not Aedan, who had commanded respect and wielded authority as easily as a farmer might lift a hoe. Leliana preferred to keep her cards close to her chest, and watch and wait. Her days as one of Orlais' most infamous bards were long gone, but old habits died hard. She would need all of her skill and wit if she was to survive on the king's council, much less thrive there.

She reached her daughter's bedchambers. As she shared it with the king, two guards blocked her way. They weren't mere guards, but handpicked knights who would not be easily intimidated.

"You are not allowed to enter, Lady Leliana."

"And why not? I wish to see my daughter."

"King's orders. Ever since the assassination."

Grudgingly, Leliana had to admit he had a point.

"Can you at least tell me where the queen is?"

"Her highness is not within her chambers."

"Where is she then?"

"Her highness forbade us from following her."

"And you just stood there and let her go? My serving girl makes a better watchman than you, sers," said Leliana angrily. She left in a hurry.

She knew her daughter. She knew she liked to go off by herself when she was in one of her moods. That would have been fine for a peasant girl. It would even have been acceptable for a lord's daughter. But she was the queen of Ferelden, and even a simple thing like solitude was no longer as easy to find as it once was.

Leliana went down to the stables, mentally groaning at the thought of her fine clothes in contact with all that muck. But she knew there was a little secluded spot right beside it, and the stableboy was a friend of Aeryn's.

"Mika," said Leliana sternly, causing the boy to jump. "Where is the queen?"

"I don't know..."

"I do not have the patience, boy."

"Just there," said Mika, pointing. Leliana swept past him and into the yard.

There she found a sight she did not expect to see again, her daughter Aeryn in riding leathers and boots practicing swordplay. The young queen had tied her hair back in a ponytail and was cutting the air with a longsword.

"Aeryn," called Leliana. Aeryn stopped, but she did not look around. Leliana went over to her.

"Aeryn love, why are you doing this?"

Aeryn's shoulders were slumped, whether from exhaustion or guilt Leliana could not say.

"Mother," she said quietly. "I half expected you to find me."

"Look at you," admonished Leliana. "All alone...you could have been in danger."

"I have this," said Aeryn, holding up her sword. It was a slim blade, more like a rapier than a real longsword observed Leliana.

"Where did you get that?"

"I took it from the palace armory. No one's like to miss it. Not like the cry that would arise if Starfang had gone missing."

Leliana sighed at the mention of her husband's sword. He had given it to his daughter as half the realm looked on. But it was now in a glass case in the royal trophy room, instead of in a scabbard belted at her daughter's hip. "I thought we discussed this."

"I know we did mother. My fighting days are long past. It's just – oh, never mind."

"Tell me what's on your mind."

"Nothing."

"Aeryn ever since you were a girl you would run and hide and play with your swords whenever you were angry about something. I don't think anything has changed."

Aeryn turned away and slid into the Antivan fencer stance, presenting only her side to some invisible enemy. Leliana recognised it, Zevran had to have given her a few lessons. It was quite unlike the style she had learned from Aedan.

She made the sword hum as it whirled through the air. Faster and faster, then suddenly she jabbed out, as quick as a striking snake. Aeryn held that position for a second, breathing hard. Then she swung her sword upwards to kiss it, before sheathing it.

"If I cannot give Duncan an heir, I am worthless," said Aeryn finally.

"Darling -"

"You know it's the truth mother. I can ride. I can joust. I know the sword and the axe and the dagger and the lance. I can hunt and scout and run and _fight._ I would have been a great knight."

"Knighthood was not what we wanted for you."

"Say true? Why else would father teach me how to become one?"

"So you could protect yourself. Aedan wanted you to be a great queen."

"Maker help me mother, I've done nothing since becoming a queen. I can't even help people the way I used to, because I'm not allowed to go off on my own. I can't help them as the queen, because I'm not on the royal council. I'm not allowed to command the army, or take part in tourneys, or do anything I am good at. I have one job mother, and I am failing miserably at that."

"We had hoped..." began Leliana softly.

"What now?"

"Aedan's blood taint," she said. "Grey Wardens rarely have children."

"I'm no Grey Warden."

"You are the daughter of one. Eight long years I prayed to Andraste and the Maker for a child, Aeryn. Then you were born."

"The realm will not wait eight years. I know what will happen before that. The courtiers will whisper in Duncan's ear that he must find another woman to continue the Theirin line. I will not be cast out like a beggar. I will take my leave before it happens."

"But where will you go? What will you do?"

"I don't know, mother."

"Aeryn," said Leliana. "What of Duncan?"

The queen did not speak for a long moment. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and her eyes glistened with tears.

"I love him," she said quietly. "I do not want to leave him, but I have to. I cannot give him what he needs. What Ferelden needs."

Leliana drew her daughter close to her and let her sob on her shoulder. "Aeryn, listen to me. I know how important having a child means to you. To the both of you. But please do not do anything so brash as to leave in the middle of the night."

"I wasn't planning to," lied Aeryn.

"You must have patience my love," said Leliana. "I know it sounds difficult, but we do not run away from our problems."

"This is not a normal problem."

"Yet running away changes nothing all the same. Aedan and I had our miracles. It took a long time, but you came, and Dare soon after. You have to be patient."

"But the court -"

"Will have to deal with me," said Leliana firmly. "I have some small experience with whispers, as you may no doubt recall. And I do have a seat on the council. Maybe in time I can persuade Duncan to let you in. But I will stop any foolish talk of the king setting you aside dead in its tracks."

Aeryn smiled, wiping away a last tear. "Thank you mother. I'm being foolish."

"Maybe not entirely," said Leliana thoughtfully. "I see no reason why you shouldn't continue your swordplay. Albeit in a more secure place than this yard."

"Say true?"

"You have only ever known the iron dance, of hacking and hammering. I loved your father, but he was such an unimaginative fighter. That was his noble upbringing, I'd stake my life on it. Never could accept any other style as equal to his own."

"Mother?"

"I see you've learned the fundamentals of the water dance. Zevran, I take it?" asked Leliana, and Aeryn nodded. "Good. Much more suited for you. Aeryn dear, you are strong, but you will not be the strongest knight. Let me show you another way."

"You, mother?"

"And why not me? I have forgotten more swordplay than you ever knew," said Leliana, in such an affronted tone than Aeryn had to laugh.

**Council Chamber**

**Royal Palace**

**Denerim**

Leliana cast an irritable glance at the lengthening shadows in the room. After having breakfast with Aeryn, she had arrived for the Council meeting at noon sharp and had been waiting for a considerable length of time for the king to show his royal person. Although she did manage to make some headway in discussing the list of items in their agenda, they ultimately required the king's decision one way or another. And the longer he took his time, the longer the work would pile up.

There were a million things to get done. The coronation of a king did not end with the ceremony. Alliances had to be reaffirmed, letters to various monarchs had to be drafted and sent. The old skinflint Bhelen, always looking out for new opportunities to make himself richer. The reaffirmation of Ferelden's ties to Orlais. The calls from the Dalish keepers for greater autonomy. Ferelden had always been somewhat of a disunited land, bound only by shaky allegiances and the might of the Wardens, and there were few times as unstable as when a king was newly crowned.

Leliana had not wedded her daughter to the king only to have him lose the kingdom. She resolved to work to keep the realm running as smoothly as possible, by any means necessary.

She sipped from her goblet of pure cold water (disdaining wine when there was work to be done) and looked around the great table, where each member of the council was seated. If like her they were annoyed at the king's tardiness, they took pains not to show it.

Thornton Wilder, the Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens and the current Arl of Amaranthine sat across from her, staring straight in front of him in a dutiful silence. Her husband had thought him a colossal fool, but his perception had perhaps been clouded by the fact that Arl Wilder had gotten his great friend Shale the golem killed. Leliana had been in close contact with the man for some time now and had concluded that while he was no genius, he was far from being an idiot either. Arl Wilder had fought bravely in both the retaking of Denerim and the defense of Amaranthine, and was an able replacement for Aedan as Lord Commander. He took great pride in his status as a Warden, and was forever writing to her son Rolann to ask for his membership and support. Leliana found it rather amusing that she got along rather well with a man who rubbed both her husband and son the wrong way.

To his left sat Lina Traverse, the young mage who served the court and lent her voice on all things to do with magic. Selected personally by Rolann, she had long red hair, a slight build, and great magical talent like her son. Lina could be brash and hot-blooded, and didn't think twice about speaking her mind. Leliana sometimes privately wondered if Rolann had appointed her solely to annoy the rest of the council. Despite her headstrong ways however she had thrived on the small council, which signalled that she had a keen mind that could navigate the treacherous waters of the Denerim court politics with ease.

Lina was deep in conversation with Lord Bryand of House Marding, a dwarven noble and representative of King Bhelen. Having a dwarven ambassador in his court was one of Alistair's better ideas, who had always maintained strong links with the dwarves. Bryand was courteous and dignified but difficult to read. Leliana couldn't recall having had a long conversation with the dwarf. He was richly clad in green and silver, and wore a fine golden chain around his neck, on which was hung a dazzling emerald. House Marding did not lack for coin.

Speaking of coin, beside Bryand was the council's master of coin, a small nervous man named Bann Arctan Dimmesdale. The younger son of a minor Arl, Dimmesdale distinguished himself by running his brother's modest estates more efficiently than the drunkard could ever hope to have done. Noticing his capabilities, Queen Anora had summoned him to court and put him in charge of the royal treasury. Dimmesdale had arguably the hardest job in all of Ferelden, with his main headache trying to ensure that the kingdom's nobles paid their taxes on time.

Next to Dimmesdale was the elven ambassador, Keeper Mathias. Although hailing from Dalish lands, he worked tirelessly with the city elf magistrate to better the lives of his people, both in the forests and in the cities. With Alistair's support and influence he had mostly succeeded, and it was not uncommon to see elves serving in the king's armies or opening shops in Denerim and other towns. Mathias had a lordly air about him, and rarely spoke during councils, only offering his opinion when asked. This made him very popular with the others.

Beside Mathias was an empty seat. Normally this would have been Zevran's, as royal spymaster, but the king had seen it fit to dismiss the elf from his service following the death of the queen. Leliana thought that it was an ill decision, but one that Zevran had taken with his customary good grace. The alternative had been death for failing to protect the queen, until her daughter had stood up in his defence. Zevran had left quietly, and now no one knew where he was. Even sadder, no one seemed to care. Leliana wished she could see him again, the Antivan always seemed to know what was going on at any given time.

The sound of the chamber door being thrown open interrupted her thoughts and made her rise to her feet. The king had arrived.

Duncan walked into the room, still wearing black out of respect for his slain mother. It contrasted rather strikingly with his blonde hair and pale complexion. The king looked tired and frustrated, and did not offer a smile before bidding the rest of his council to take their seats.

Behind the king was another man, wearing black as well. He was bald with a black goatee, and his small dark eyes shifted continuously as he surveyed each of the council in turn. Leliana had never seen him before. He sat down in Zevran's seat and steepled his fingers together.

"This is Bann Rylon Garrett," said Duncan without preamble. "He is my new royal spymaster."

"His majesty has accorded me great honour," began Garrett. "I will make every effort to hunt down the person responsible for killing our beloved queen."

"You had better succeed," said Duncan ominously, and a little colour drained out of Garrett's cheeks. "What news do you have for me?"

Garrett launched into a long and boring ramble of all the many things he had done to seek out Anora's murderer while not actually making much headway. It took a great deal of time, and the other councillors were not consulted at all.

Finally Garrett was finished, and Leliana seized the opportunity to get the ball rolling.

"Your majesty, there are many matters that require your attention."

Duncan looked at her with faint displeasure.

"My mother's killer is still free within the borders of my kingdom, Lady Leliana. All other matters are secondary to me until he or she is brought before me in chains."

"I realise that, your majesty," said Leliana slowly. Carefully. "Yet Bann Garrett has finished his report, and there seems to be little we can do for the present moment."

Duncan still looked annoyed, but he gave a sharp, curt nod. Leliana silently thanked the Maker and moved on with getting some real work finished.

They were doing fine until Bann Dimmesdale mentioned something about hearing a rumour that Qunari sails had been sighted off the coast of Estwatch.

"A huge fleet, far larger than anything ever seen," said the master of coin anxiously. "The people say that Estwatch has fallen."

Duncan frowned. "Estwatch is a Free Marcher city. It has little to do with us. Even if this is true, let the Free Marches deal with the Qunari. We are too far south for them to attack, and I have other more pressing matters on my mind."

Leliana stirred. This was the first she had heard of a Qunari attack. "Your majesty, it may be prudent to send scouts to find out if Estwatch has indeed fallen to Qunari invaders."

Ser Thornton nodded. "Amaranthine is near the coast, your majesty. My wardens could sail there and give me a report."

"I'd sooner have them assist Bann Garrett," snapped Duncan. "Looking for news of a Qunari invasion is ridiculous. The sailors and fisher folk always spread ludicrous tales. Bann Dimmesdale, I'd rather you not waste our time with foolish talk."

"My deepest apologies, your majesty," said Bann Dimmesdale, turning red.

Despite the king's disregard Leliana still felt worried. Highever was on the coast as well, and Estwatch was just a few days sail away. Not that she seriously considered the possibility of a Qunari invasion, but she hadn't lived this long without being cautious. She resolved to talk privately to Ser Thornton and see about sending a warden or two over to Estwatch as soon as possible.

**Brandel's Reach**

**Northern Ferelden**

The days were long, slow and peaceful on Brandel's Reach, an island a little way to the north of Amaranthine. Named after King Brandel the Defeated, he who had lost his kingdom to the Orlesians, the island was a reminder of happier times. The king had visited the island once, the northernmost point of his realm, and a castle was built around the village where he had slept in his honour.

Other than the keep there wasn't really much else of interest on the Reach. Just fields and villages and hills where the shepherds grazed their sheep and a few plains where ranchers raised their cattle. Traders would sometimes stop by, but more often then not they would head onwards to either Amaranthine or Highever, where bigger marketplaces were situated. The islanders didn't mind. They were a private people, and tended to get few visitors.

Two knights on horseback cantered along at an easy pace along the coastal road, enjoying the breeze blowing in from the sea. The knights served Arl Stonewood, lord of the Reach, and were keeping an eye out for bandits. They wore mail shirts and had swords at their waists, but were otherwise unarmed and unarmored.

"Is there any ale left?" called the younger of the pair.

"None, you wine-sodden fool," shouted the elder over his shoulder. "At least, none for you."

"Give it up Beric, lest I'd be forced to hurt you."

"When that day comes Osric, I'll dig my own grave to save you the trouble."

Ser Osric Harrion laughed heartily. He had received his knighthood from the Arl barely two weeks back, and although he would never have admitted it, riding with his older brother as a fellow knight and equal was still something he was getting used to.

"What say you to a sparring match when we get back? Loser buys the winner all the ale he can drink in a night."

"Bad idea. I'd rather not take all your money."

"What makes you so sure you're going to win, Beric?"

"Even if Andraste herself handed you a flaming sword I'd still beat you hollow."

"Try me."

Ser Beric sighed theatrically. "I will grant your wish for a ripe crop of bruises and an empty purse, Osric. Let's return to the 'hold."

"Aye!"

Ser Osric dug his heels into his horse's flanks and sped onwards. But it was a few minutes before he realised he was hearing only one set of hoofbeats on the road. He looked behind him. Ser Beric had remained behind, staring intently at something on the horizon. Wheeling his horse around, Ser Osric went back to him.

"Changed your mind?"

Ser Beric didn't reply immediately. He had shaded his eyes with his hand, squinting at something. Ser Osric turned to see what it was had captured his attention.

"What's going on?"

"Can't you make out something out at sea? Look, just there."

Osric looked harder, straining his eyes. For a while he could see nothing but the wind and the waves. Then a black dot appeared on the horizon. Then it was followed by several more. Then even more, until it looked as though the entire horizon was filled with them. No matter how far he looked to his left or right, there was a dark shape. They were growing bigger.

Ser Osric's breath hitched in his throat. The shapes were unmistakeable, he'd seen far too many ships sailing past the Reach to think otherwise. But there were _so many_.

"A trading fleet?" he ventured nervously, scrambling for something, anything other than the cold and bitter answer that he knew in his heart to be true.

"Don't be a fool," said his brother softly. His eyes had narrowed, and his mouth was set in a thin, firm line. "Those are warships. We're being attacked."

"But how? By who?"

Ser Beric remained silent for a few minutes. Then his eyes grew wide.

"The diamond standard," he breathed in disbelief.

"What does that mean?"

"Only one race flies the diamond standard on their banners. The qunari."

"_Qunari? _Here?"

"We need to raise the alarm. We must ride with all haste back to Branhold. Then we need to send a message to Denerim. The king must be warned."

Beric kicked his horse into a gallop with a roar. Osric did the same. For too long he had wished for some action, some great and glorious battle that would take him far away from the sleepy little island he had lived all his life. Now it seemed the Maker had granted his wish, and the young knight cursed Him bitterly for it.

**Shift**

The qunari assembled in their neat rows on deck. They were arranged in order of seniority, with the highest ranked nearest to the side facing the land. There was not enough space on deck for all of them, and there was fierce competition among the men for a spot. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse, to be able to tell his comrades that he was there the moment the Arishok took his first step on Ferelden soil, not as an envoy, but as a conqueror.

The Arishok emerged from his cabin, straight-backed and regal in his armour. It did not gleam, although it was well-polished. It had taken far too many knocks, blows and cuts for that. Yet the Arishok refused to obtain a newer set. Likewise, the longsword he had strapped to his back was made of plain steel, without ornament of any kind. Yet the ordinary looking sword had cut a bloody swathe through a sea of darkspawn. The time had come where it would cut through the men and women of Ferelden just as easily.

The Arishok held in his hands a large flag, the standard of the qunari. He alone would have the honour of sinking it deep into the territory of the enemy.

He clambered on board the gunwale, a little off balance in his heavy armour, but doing so without assistance. Grasping the flag tightly, he crouched and leaped.

It was a long fall, and might have broken the legs of a human. But the Arishok was made of sterner stuff. He landed on his feet, and kept his balance. The qunari warriors watched and waited.

The Arishok turned around. He unwrapped the flag, and plunged it deep into the ground. The diamond standard of the Qunari fluttered in the breeze, the cloth slapping in the wind.

The Arishok drew his sword and thrust it into the air. He bellowed, and the roars of a thousand Qunari warriors filled the air. Seagulls took flight in their fright, putting some distance between themselves and the sound.

"I claim this land in the name of the Qun!" roared the old Arishok. "I claim this land for the qunari people! Their chantries shall be torn down, their mages shall be slaughtered, their knights and soldiers shall be cut down, and their commonfolk shall be made to walk the true path! From the Frostbacks to the Brecilian Forests, from Highever to the Korcari Wilds, all shall bend the knee to us! We will go forth, and conquer!"

He bellowed again, and the qunari answered in kind. If the Arl of Brandel's Reach had not spied their sails, he would have now been warned of the danger at his doorstep.

**Branhold**

**Brandel's Reach**

Arl Emmon Stonewood, the master of Branhold and lord of Brandel's Reach, paced restlessly round and round his great hall. Light from the fire and torches cast his shadow long and ragged upon the walls. The Arl was a tall, gaunt man, and his bald head was marked with liver spots. He had belted a sword to his waist, yet everyone knew he had not swung a sword since the Blight, well over twenty years ago.

His wife and daughters had already fled, clutching each other for comfort and sobbing on the way out. The oldest was a woman grown, the youngest still a babe. The Arl's only son and heir Davan had died during the same war, after which he swore never to take up a sword again.

He had done so now. The threat this time was not darkspawn – evil, foul twisted monsters – but qunari warriors.

_Qunari. _Arl Stonewood wanted to scream and rage at the injustice of it all. The Qunari had not moved south of the Tevinter Imperium for over two hundred years. They had not moved during the long years of his ancestors' reign, nor twenty years ago when he was a young man and strong, ready to take on an enemy and win.

He had lost his son, he had grown old, and now he cowered in his castle like a rat caught in a trap, as death marched in endless grey ranks, drawing ever closer to his walls.

His knights Ser Beric and Osric had ridden without pause to bring him warning, though there was little he could do. All the commonfolk within a few hours ride of Brandelhold had been roused by messengers and were told to make for the castle with all speed, and to bring whatever weapons they might possess. But deep in his heart of hearts, Arl Stonewood knew it was a futile gesture.

He had a bare retinue of fifty knights, led by Ser Beric. His household guard numbered two hundred, and half of that freeriders and sellswords and untrained boys. He could equip perhaps another hundred of the stoutest peasants, although he doubted more than one in ten could draw a bow.

A large standing guard had seemed like folly during the years of peace, for a quiet Arling like Brandel's Reach. Arl Stonewood had neglected his duties, ignored his family, instead brooding on his lost son and old wounds. He had not cared for the defense of the island or thought about war for a very long time. Now he was being forced back into the fray.

Less than four hundred against a qunari horde. Ser Beric could not know how many warriors there were, but he had seen the number of sails. If he had ten times the men, and again as many knights the qunari would have still overwhelm him.

He did not delude himself into believing he could win. A qunari invasion was something no Arl could withstand alone. He knew his duty. He had to get the message away to Denerim. The king had to be warned. Ser Osric had drawn the lot, and was now speeding away for the mainland. His wife and daughters lagged behind. Arl Stonewood prayed the Maker and Andraste to guide their steps.

Ser Osric had turned white as a sheet when he had drawn the lot. He had turned to his brother in shock, as if hoping something could be done about it. But Ser Beric's face had been as hard and cold as stone. Osric had been commanded by his liege lord to take the message. Even if that meant he would be the only one to survive while the rest at Brandelhold would be slaughtered.

Beric and Osric had clasped hands in the castle courtyard. There were no words. What was there to say? And if there had been a glimmer of something wet in Ser Osric's eyes, his Arl had not made mention of it.

Emmon had remained behind. The sight of their lord fleeing his holdfast would have induced a panic among the commonfolk that would have been impossible to quell. The qunari would not have needed to raise their banners before cutting them down. He remained behind to direct the defense, while his family left without him.

He did not fear death, on the contrary he had longed for it ever since Davan was killed. But he had to do his duty, by his family and by his king. And no matter how bitter the cup, Arl Emmon Stonewood had always drank it down.

He would make a stand. He would fight as well as he could. He would bloody the nose of the qunari invaders and take a few of them down with him. Maker willing he might kill someone important.

Then he would die, and see his son once more.

The Arl abruptly stopped his pacing and left his empty hall. He would not die like a rat caught in a trap. Better to feel the sun and wind one last time before Andraste claimed him for her own.

He walked along his walls, noting with detached approval that Ser Beric had been hard at work ever since he returned from his patrol on the coast, with barely a pause for breath. The castle's walls were fully manned for the first time in decades. Every man had been outfitted with mail and boiled leather from the stores, and each had a good longbow in hand. The Arl saw at once his resolve to remain behind at the castle was the correct decision. Some of the younger boys were looking terrified, but the fear softened as they saluted their liege lord. Emmon clasped some by the hand, muttered a few words of encouragement here and there. He envied their hope, their blind trust that somehow they would be able to survive to coming storm. As small and as faint as their own hopes were, it was more than what he could manage. Gradually he felt all feeling drain away from him little by little, until it was as though a dark, empty void sucked at his chest. Dimly he wondered if this was how Davan felt like before he died.

He descended from the battlements and strode across the courtyard, as stern and straight-backed as he could manage. A few feet away Ser Beric was barking some last minute commands to his men.

"Saddle the horses and suit up in your armour! I want every last pox-ridden whoreson on his horse with a weapon in hand before I return from the armoury! Donner, Blandel, check the gate again!"

"Ser Beric," said Arl Stonewood softly.

"My lord Arl," said Beric in surprise. He made to kneel, but Emmon stopped him.

"We are past common courtesies, good ser knight. Would that you walk with me for a moment."

"Of course, my lord," replied Ser Beric. He handed the reins of his horse to his squire and followed the Arl. Emmon led him up the stone steps all the way to the highest tower in silence. Only then did he speak.

"I was born in this castle, many winters past. Now I will die in it."

"Not if I can help it," said Beric grimly. The Arl chuckled.

"You were ever the best of my household guard, Ser Beric. You have served me well and faithfully all these years, when even the king himself would have offered you a place by his side."

"I remember the tournament," said Ser Beric, his features easing as he delved into memory. "I...think about it often, my lord."

"It is only natural. What a day it was."

"The roar of the Denerim commonfolk," said Ser Beric. "I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had never heard its like then, nor have I since."

"You unhorsed many a good knight that day, and outfought many more. Ser Cauthrien, Ser Darry...even that giant from Gwaren, Ser Bandon."

"Aye, he was a tough nut to crack. But Ser Artur was the hardest of them all."

"The Iron Knight, I do recall. What a fight that was!"

And so it had been. Ser Beric had fought with Ser Artur Wellsley for half a day, and no finer dance there was throughout Ferelden. Bards still sang of it sometimes. The wily veteran from unheralded Brandel's Reach hammering away at his famed opponent, the Iron Knight. Ser Artur had been given the name ever since he had fought darkspawn in his bare skin after having his armour torn off his body, and did not seem to feel the pain from the many wounds he was dealt. He had defended his modest keep near Gwaren almost singlehandedly against the darkspawn, an impossible feat that won him the king's favour and a high position in the royal army. He was a fearsome warrior, beloved of the royal court and had made quite a name for himself as a battlefield commander. Yet on that day it was Ser Beric Harrion who had proven his skill.

Beric had made as if to try for an overhead slash with both hands, then wrongfooted Ser Artur as he tried to ward off the blow. The Iron Knight had tumbled to the dirt and acknowledged the knight of Brandelhold as his superior.

Queen Anora herself had declared Ser Beric the winner, and hung a golden chain around his neck. Ser Beric had dedicated the win to the young daughter of the Highever Teyrn afterwards. A few eyebrows were raised, but truth be told he was exhausted and the Lady Aeryn had been seated nearest to him. He had then been congratulated by King Alistair, who had offered him a position with the royal guard. Beric had politely declined.

Ser Beric could see it all in his mind's eye. The rueful smile of the Iron Knight as he was helped to his feet. The smell of the queen's perfume as he knelt before her. The strong grip of the king and the warmth in his eyes. The blush that had flamed the cheeks of the Cousland girl when the rose was dropped in her lap. The taste of the wine and the meat at the feast afterwards. The songs the minstrels had sang for him, about him. No meal had ever been so sweet.

For a few moments it made him forget about his impending doom, that marched in great grey ranks and shook the ground when they walked.

Ser Beric looked askance at the Arl. "Why do you speak of that day, my lord?"

"I would know why you turned down the king. Comfortable as Branhold is, surely it cannot hold a candle to the splendour of Denerim."

"My lord, I..."

"Please. Grant an old man his wish."

"This is my home, my lord," said Beric finally, gesturing at the land spread out in front of him. "I have never known any other. I was not made for glory or songs, but a life of service to my liege. Brandel's Reach was where I was born, and I would do anything to protect her."

Arl Stonewood nodded. "Just as I thought. Thank you for your answer ser. Your faith and service have been more than any noble deserves."

"I swore an oath, my lord. I do not forsake it."

"As you should. Tell me, have my wife and daughters been seen to safety?"

"Two of my knights are escorting them to the mainland."

"And what of your brother?"

Ser Beric bit his lip. "He has the message. He will do his duty."

"I must confess ser. I had a hand in the lot drawing."

"My lord?"

"It was my wish that Ser Osric would take the message to Denerim."

Ser Beric's eyes widened as the full meaning of the Arl's words hit him. "My lord...truly? It was your doing?"

"Yes."

Ser Beric fell to his knees and kissed Arl Stonewood's hand. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you."

"You have done me great honour, ser. Osric is a good man, a young man. He should not have to share our fate. Saving your brother's life was the least I could do to repay you."

Ser Beric got up, and when he spoke his voice was cold and firm. Already he seemed taller, stronger, more fierce. Arl Stonewood had seen for himself the knight's struggle to contain his emotions when his brother was picked to fly to Denerim.

"Let the qunari come, my lord. Maker willing and by Andraste's grace we shall cut ten of them down for every man we lose."

"Maker help us all."

**Shift**

Few qunari were riders. They were seafarers and sailors, and in the far northern jungles of Seheron and Par Vollen there were huge spotted cats that could make a quick meal out of any pack animal. Being a naturally huge people, there were few horses who could bear their weight and still be trained for battle.

They would conduct this first stroke without cavalry. But they would not need cavalry against a target so badly defended.

The Warden King had not grown up under the thumb of a foreign oppressor, and Queen Anora rarely bothered to think about what was going on beyond the borders she ruled, if at all. Cousland would have not lain idle had he been on the throne, but Cousland had been content with his father's city and lands. Even the old hardbitten paranoid Loghain Mac Tir would have mounted a better defense than this.

Alistair had assumed all enemies were darkspawn, who would threaten the kingdom from the inside. The Warden King was lost far beneath the ground, but the Arishok intended to make his son pay dearly for that mistake.

"Sten," called the Arishok. "Report to me."

The young Sten ran up a moment later, already armed and armoured. He saluted.

"Arishok."

"Tell me what you see."

"A modest castle. Thick walls, but they should pose no trouble."

"And why not?"

"We'll make straight for the main gate instead. It seems a waste to wheel out the siege engines for such a weak target. In an hour's time I can have my karashoks bring down a few trees for battering rams."

The Sten was young, eager, champing at the bit to fly into battle, reflected the Arishok. That was not necessarily a bad thing, but his word still ruled and the Sten would bow to his wishes.

"Speed is a crucial element of war."

"Perhaps the most."

"But this war is different. It makes no matter how fast we take this island of Brandel's Reach, scouts are surely on their way to the capital by now."

"What are we waiting for then? We must stop them!"

"We have not brought mounts, and our quarry are likely to be ahorse," said the Arishok mildly, but something in his eyes made the Sten swallow his words and adopt a meeker demeanour.

"Arishok," he began, more carefully this time, "what was the flaw in my plan?"

"No flaw," said the Arishok. "But it was not the right one for the situation. We have brought many strong warriors with us, but we are a long way from Par Vollen and Seheron and it will be some time before we can be reinforced. The soldiers we have now will have to suffice, and we cannot fling their lives away so cheaply. Look at the gate."

The Sten did so.

"Now look closely at the way the overhang juts out over the entrance."

"I see it."

"There will be murderholes, for the castle defenders to hurl rocks, shoot crossbows and fling buckets of boiling pitch down on any battering ram crew we send. We will break down the gate, but the handful of warriors I will lose is too high. Not when we have catapults and trebuchets packed away on the ships that can be assembled in a night."

"Yes Arishok, but the messenger -"

"Is of little concern. I want him to bring word of our coming straight to the king. I know the measure of their defences and what strength they can muster on the field. It makes little difference whether he finds out today or on the morrow. Either way he will know fear."

The Arishok's manner suddenly turned cold, like a frost wind off the sea of Seheron.

"See to the siege engines, Sten. I have a castle to take."

"Yes Arishok!"

The Arishok watched and waited impassively as the siege equipment was carried off the ships and assembled on the plain in front of the Arl's castle, a process that took most of the night. High on the walls he could make out the defenders watching the great army that formed up before them. Even at this distance he could make out the device on their surcoats, a grey tree on a green field. Thanks to the reports he had received, he knew almost every Arl in Ferelden and the strength of the armed force they could summon. He knew that Emmon Stonewood was a tired old man and Brandel's Reach had few fighters of note.

He passed the time in silent contemplation of the Qun, as all around him his warriors yelled threats and banged their shields and prepared for the fight to come. All he did was for the greater glory of his people and the true path. There was nothing that could stand in his way.

**Shift**

"I yield, ser! I yield!"

The Arishok took a moment to smash his gauntlet into the face of a man-at-arms coming at him from his left. The blow broke bone and sent blood and teeth flying. The man staggered away, and was cut down by another qunari, who yelled with pride at the sight of the Arishok and leapt forward to his next opponent.

Only then did he look back at the fallen knight. The Arishoke had cut him so savagely it was a wonder he wasn't dead yet. His arm was hanging by a thread. Blood was pumping freely from it, staining the earth a dark red.

"I yield. Maker, I yield. Please!"

One look told him the man was about to die anyway. The Arishok's next blow swept the head from his shoulders, a quick death with little pain. The man's body stayed upright for a moment longer before crashing into the dust.

This was why he was born. This was what he lived for. Fighting was what he was meant to do. Past Arishoks had led from the back, commanding battles without ever getting their swords bloody. That would never do for him. Battle was a joy, the song of steel on steel, the cries of the dying and the stink of the dead. All in the name of the Qun.

Another knight on horseback charged at him, levelling the point of his lance directly at his chest. The Arishok barely had time to fling himself out of the way, and the knight rode past him and skewered a young qunari straight through the throat.

_That could have been me, _thought the Arishok dispassionately. It was not the first time he had avoided walking into the night lands, and it would not be his last.

The knight wheeled around again to try for a second pass, but before he could do so a crossbow quarrel thudded into the flank of his horse. Man and beast screamed together as the agonised horse threw him off. He hit the ground at a bad angle, twisting his ankle grotesquely. The Arishok strode up to him and drove Asala into his throat before he could say a word, avenging the qunari who had died for him.

Asala slid out, her point red and black with gore, and the Arishok looked to see who was next to die. The Arl's men were falling back, his qunari pushing ever onwards. They had breached his walls and were fighting in the courtyard. Light from both the torches and the moon flickered over the carnage.

The defenders were too few, too green. The knights had fought well, but they were up against the fiercest warriors in the world, his qunari ranks. They fought with implacable, unfailing discipline, without breaking formation or missing a step. They took five of the Arl's men for every qunari who fell.

The Arishok arrived at the huge doors that barred the way into the Arl's great hall. He called for a group of his qunari vanguard, and after what seemed like ages they smashed the thing down.

He had the good sense to order his warriors to immediately draw back once the door was down, and a storm of arrows and quarrels clattered uselessly against the stone wall. The Arishok then leapt through the barricade, Asala held high and gleaming.

The Arl had a group of five knights with him, and they hurled themselves at the qunari. The Arishok found himself in combat with a big knight, mailed and helmed. His surcoat was torn and bloody, suggesting that he had taken part in the defense of the walls and had retreated back to his Arl's side only when all seemed lost.

The knight's sword whirled, ringing against Asala as the Arishok was forced a step backwards, then another under the furious onslaught. He fought like a man possessed, trying to wedge his blade in a weak point of the Arishok's armour.

The Arishok blocked one cut, then another, but was thrown back as the knight smashed his oak shield against his breastplate. He staggered and fell on a table, the weight of his armour smashing it to splinters.

The knight swung his sword down, but the Arishok blocked it with his forearm out of desperation, not being able to get his greatsword up in time. It slammed into his plate but the armour held. If the knight had been but a little stronger the blow would have cut through even that, but he had been fighting for hours and his strength had finally given out.

The Arishok lashed out with a heavy steel boot directly into the knight's midriff, sending him sprawling backwards while he struggled to get up. They regained their balance at the same time, and the knight came forward again, striking out in desperation.

He was lucky, the swordpoint found a gap in his plate around the armpit and the blade bit into flesh, deeply but not fatally. A spike of pain shot through the Arishok, but he ignored it and swung Asala one handed. The steel greatsword he had carried since he was a child sunk into the knight's shoulder, scraping bone. He screamed, but he could not wrench free. The Arishok pulled Asala out and slashed again at neck height.

Only then did he allow himself to catch a breath.

"Where is the Arl?" he muttered.

"He's dead, Arishok," said one of his qunari. And so he was. Arl Stonewood lay on the floor, a spear in his chest and another one in his side. He had managed to kill one of his attackers before dying, the dead qunari warrior lying across his legs.

"No matter. We have no need of ransom," said the Arishok. He removed his greathelm and took another deep breath. "Is the castle ours?"

"Yes, Branhold has fallen. We hold the Reach."

_We hold the Reach, _thought the Arishok. The words sounded far sweeter than he could ever have imagined. Soon they would hold Amaranthine. Highever. Redcliffe. From the Frostbacks to the Forest. From the Waking Sea to Ostagar. And at last, Denerim.

The Arishok lived for the day where he could look over the stinking, bleeding corpse of the city he had once helped to save and hold it in the palm of his hand. All for the qunari. All for the Qun.


End file.
